


Beyond the Quizzing Glass

by lobstergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, M/M, mythea, the heart has a mind of its own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:12:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU in which Mycroft Holmes has given up a promising military career to take up his duties as eldest son and heir of the late Earl of Halsbury and in which his younger brother's world has suffered serious damage from the family tragedy. Appearances must be upheld nevertheless, an elegant facade must be maintained and scandals must be avoided at all cost. A convenient marriage to the lovely Lady Harcourt therefore seems a logical choice, but the appearance of a handsome Bow Street Runner makes him wonder whether he should listen to logic when life offers him what he has always wanted. </p><p>However, sense and sensibility are not always in disagreement, no matter what the poets say, and Mycroft Holmes is forced to consider the possibility that the one thing he has always thought he wanted might not be what he has truly been looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

The idea to this story came to me while I was listening to a bunch of Georgette Heyer audiobooks, knitting like a fiend (Christmas deadline drawing closer!). The Sherlock Christmas Special had not aired then and there were absolutely no photos of Victorian!Mycroft, only speculations (now we know why). I decided there and then that no matter what the Mighty Gatiss, evil genius that he is, would do to Mycroft, I had to write a story featuring Regency!Mycroft and he would be aloof, haughty, elegant and dashing. In short: the sexy beast we’ve all come to love, wearing tight pantaloons, exquisitely arranged neckties, oh and those shiny Hessians. 

 

Before we venture into the elegant Regency period with our favourite boys, I think a few explanations are in order for those of you unfamiliar with that particular time. 

Given the fact that this story takes place in the early 1800’s, I made the characters younger because gentlemen in their early and late forties would be considered old, and we don’t want that, do we. So, Sherlock is 26 going on 27, John is 32, Mycroft is 34, Lestrade is 37 and Anthea is 25. 

Titles. Mycroft Holmes has inherited the title Earl of Halsbury from his father, and as such is addressed as Lord Halsbury, or Halsbury by his friends. He’s not addressed by his family name.

Sherlock Holmes is the Viscount Tiverton, his father’s second title that had been Mycroft’s until their father’s death. Therefore, Sherlock is Lord Tiverton.

Anthea is the Viscountess Harcourt. 

Names. The use of given names was restricted to your innermost circles. Children growing up together called each other by their given names, such as siblings, close cousins or boys who have known each other since school and/or have been friends for a very, very long time. Parents would call their children by their Christian names until or unless there was a title available, then they would use that, although in a more informal manner, such as Halsbury for Mycroft, for example. Even spouses used a formal way of address, at least when in company. They would never refer to their spouse by his or her Christian name, not even amongst close friends. In the privacy of their homes, it would depend on their level of intimacy, age difference etc., but even at home, some couples would keep addressing each other as “my lord” and “my lady”.

Here, I have chosen for Mycroft and Anthea to call each other by their given names because of their very close relationship. 

Regarding the Metropolitan police, well, I guess I will take some artistic liberties as I write, for the Met as we know it was not founded before 1829 by Sir Robert Peel. Before that, there were the Bow Street Runners, founded in 1750 by John Fielding and his brother Henry. The Bow Street Runners were in part real detectives who worked on a fee and reward basis which – sadly – invited corruption (see book no. 1 below, chapter on Crime and Punishment). I’m not going to twist the whole thing around just to suit me, but I’ll tweak a little here and there, for… reasons. 

If anyone is interested, these two books have been immensely helpful with the research:

1) What Jane Austen ate and Charles Dickens knew – Daniel Pool

2) Georgette Heyer’s Regency World – Jennifer Kloester

 

Any faults are mine, not the authors’!


	2. His Lordship makes an appearance

Not a single sound was heard in the dressing room as the Earl’s hand hovered before his meticulously tied cravat. The valet held his breath. The moment of quiet reverence was ruined, however, when the door was flung open and a young gentleman stormed into the room. The valet, his attention fixed on his master, gave a visible start but the Earl didn’t even blink an eye and with deft fingers placed the pin exactly where he wished it to be.

One minor adjustment to the necktie’s folds, and the Earl of Halsbury stepped back from the mirror, threw one last critical glance over his reflection and finally turned to look at the intruder. The Viscount Tiverton had thrown himself carelessly into one of the armchairs, inspecting the fingernails of his left hand with obvious boredom.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?”

“Knee breeches?” the Viscount asked mockingly. “Going to Almack’s, are we, Mycroft?”

His Lordship didn’t grace the remark with a reply but studied the rings his valet offered to him. A simple band with a Topaz of a very light blue met with his approval and he slipped it on.

“Thank you, Gibson. If you would wait outside for a moment so I may have a quiet word with my brother?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

When Gibson had closed the door behind himself, the Earl gave the Viscount a sharp look.

“Out with it, Sherlock. What do you want?”

“Why, dearest brother,” Sherlock drawled. “You wound me. What would you say if I told you I wanted to see you for the sheer pleasure of your company?”

“Such an outburst of brotherly affection would make me send for Doctor Millings immediately.”

One side of Sherlock’s mouth curved into a crooked grin.

“Dash it, Mycroft, won’t you play along just once?”

“Not when I’m in knee breeches,” Mycroft said mildly.

“I can’t for the life of me understand why you keep going to Almack’s. Place is a dead bore. I’m sure there are many others and more exciting places to visit.”

“There certainly are, but the Viscountess Harcourt has specifically asked me to attend tonight for she wishes me to meet an acquaintance of her late husband.”

“Ah, the lovely Lady Anthea.”

“The very same.”

“So, have you decided yet?”

“Decided on what?”

Sherlock shot his brother a quick glance. “Are you going to make her an offer?”

“That is hardly any of your business.” The Earl’s voice had taken on a frosty note but it didn’t have the desired effect. Sherlock raised his chin stubbornly and Mycroft frowned. “May I ask why you have taken such an interest in my personal affairs?”

The tassel of his right boot seemed to attract the Viscount’s interest and he inspected it thoughtfully.

“It has been brought to my attention,” he finally said, “that you have made certain… provisions for young Master Frederick.”

“That’s hardly a secret nor is it worth mentioning. He is my godson,” Mycroft pointed out. “However, I wonder who would bring such knowledge to your attention.”

“Never mind.” Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “But it has also been brought to my attention that these provisions somewhat exceed what is deemed proper.” He gave his brother a hard stare. “Is there anything particular about Frederick that I might want to know about?”

“What?”

“Mycroft, I was wondering – you know, given your remarkable attachment to that boy, quite out of your usual way of treating your acquaintances’ offspring or any other human being who is not a member of the _ton_ or otherwise deemed worthy of your attention – anyway, I was wondering if perhaps Frederick might be –” he broke off and shook his head. “But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it, Mycroft?”

“I should think so,” his brother said coldly. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Sherlock? How dare you accuse the Viscountess of such an indiscretion? I will not hear any more of it.”

“Don’t work yourself into a fit, Mycroft. I’m not accusing anyone of anything. It’s just a thought that has crossed my mind.”

“Well, you better get this thought out of that head of yours this very instant.” He reached for his quizzing glass and attached it to its chain. “Fret not, you are still my heir and you will not suffer from unduly hardship because of the arrangements in young Frederick’s benefit. Now if you will excuse me, I have an appointment to keep.”

“There’s one more thing,” Sherlock quickly said. “Well, it’s the reason I came to see you tonight.”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering whether I might be permitted to borrow your phaeton tomorrow? You see, there’s been a wager –”

“No,” the Earl interrupted. “You may not. I take it your curricle has not been properly mended yet?”

Sherlock made an evasive gesture. “You see –”

“I do not see,” his brother interrupted again. “You should not take on wagers that involve vehicles as long as you have none at your disposal.”

“But Mycroft, the stakes are –”

“No. And that is my last word. You do not borrow my phaeton nor any other of my vehicles. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mycroft.” It came out from behind clenched teeth. Sherlock stood abruptly, reached for his beaver hat and bade his brother good night with barely a nod, leaving the dressing room door open.

Mycroft looked after him and stifled a sigh. Sherlock had always been a wild little boy, forever outside, exploring his surroundings, studying nature, escaping his tutors. Eton had tamed him to a certain extent, as had Oxford, feeding his thirst for knowledge and providing him with enough intellectual stimulation to keep him occupied. For a while he had seemed inclined to follow a path of science and research, as had their uncle, but their father’s untimely death had put an end to this. After a brief period of shock and disbelief, Sherlock lost all interest in his studies, left Oxford with mediocre grades and Mycroft watched with dismay as his wild but charming little brother turned into a reckless young man who spent his evenings and nights in all kinds of gaming hells and cockpits, losing most of his allowance in one gamble, winning some of it back in another and accepting all kinds of wagers and challenges. And that was not the end of it. Mycroft found himself in a state of constant worry, tempted to place Sherlock under watch and despising himself for the notion.

He suppressed another sigh, squared his shoulders and called for Gibson to be helped into his elegant overcoat. Chapeau bras and malacca walking stick completed his attire, and after assuring his reluctant valet that he would not be needing his services upon his return – feeling himself quite able to undress without any assistance – he made his way downstairs where his carriage stood waiting.

 

The assembly rooms at Almack’s were more crowded than usual. Although the season had already started, many families had delayed their return to London due to an unusually harsh winter and now society was ready to be entertained after a long and mostly dull stay at their country homes.

Mycroft paused on the doorstep and scanned the room, taking notice of the usual groups standing together, made out a number of newcomers, let his eyes wander uninterestedly across a flock of very young ladies and finally spotted what he was looking for. He strolled through the crowd with the casual grace he had made his trademark, occasionally paused to exchange a polite word, pay a handsome compliment and listen to a piece of news that managed to catch his interest.

Lady Jersey, one of Almack’s patronesses, greeted him with a friendly smile and extended her hand.

“Lord Halsbury, it is very good to see you again. You were sorely missed these past weeks.”

He took the offered hand and bowed gracefully over it. “I offer my most humble apologies, my lady. It was a frightfully dull matter that kept me away, something I wish I could have avoided.”

“Matters of business?”

“Something of the kind.”

“Pooh,” she said dismissively. “A gentleman’s chores can be so very tedious. Business matters are a dead bore.”

“They are indeed,” he agreed with a twinkle. “Let me assure I was counting the days.”

“I imagine you did. Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?” The last words were directed at a lady standing at a discreet distance, waiting for Lady Jersey to finish her conversation. She came closer and greeted the Earl with a warm smile.

“Lord Halsbury, it is indeed good to see you again. I have missed my favourite dance partner.”

“Careful, Lady Harcourt,” he replied with an answering smile. “Do not tempt Lady Jersey here. You know how much she loves proving Lady Sefton wrong.”

“Pooh,” Lady Jersey said again. “There is nothing to prove here. Now off you go, the two of you. I am sure Lady Harcourt has left the first waltz open for you, Lord Halsbury.”

“I have,” Lady Harcourt promptly said. “I have had my toes stepped upon so many times during your absence that I have made a vow never to waltz with another partner.”

“You humble me.”

“Now that would be an achievement,” mused Lady Jersey, then shooed them away with a resolute gesture.

Lady Harcourt turned to Mycroft. “I know we have barely exchanged our greetings, but might I trouble you with the request of escorting me to procure a refreshment?”

“I will gladly procure one for you, my lady. No need to burden yourself with such a boring task.”

“I insist. And you would be doing me a great favour.” With speaking eyes, she indicated to the left where a young gentleman hovered, obviously burning to speak with her.

“I see. The poet is waiting to recite his latest ode to you.”

“Painter,” she corrected him. “He is a painter.”

“Forgive me, but I was under the impression he was following Lord Byron’s footsteps.”

“And so he was, until he discovered that mere words fail to describe the sunlight caught in my hair and he took to the paintbrush instead.”

“Good God,” Mycroft said, visibly shaken. “Has he made you pose for him yet?”

“Not yet. I have, however, inspired him to sketch a scene of ‘Hestia, accepting an offering’”.

“Hestia,” he repeated.

“Greek goddess of hearth, home and chastity,” she said in a voice that was not quite steady. “Isn’t that the height of womanly ambition?”

“Quite so.” He offered his arm to her. “And how very befitting, my dear. Where may one find the refreshment you desire?”

“Oh, right over there. And please do refrain from scanning him through your quizzing glass unless you want to reduce him to a heap of ash.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Well aware of their surroundings and of countless gossipmongers tuning their ears to various objects of interest, they kept chatting easily and meaninglessly until the first waltz was played.

Mycroft led Lady Harcourt to the dancefloor and lightly circled her waist with his arm.

“I believe I have failed to tell you how lovely you look tonight, Anthea,” he said with a warm smile. “I have been so busy bowing to simpering debutantes and their matchmaking mothers that I have quite forgotten my manners.”

“Poor dear,” she smiled back at him. “Such hardship. I can feel their eyes on me now, stabbing me with their looks.”

“Wishing their daughters were able to wear such a daring shade of orange.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at the compliment. “Wishing me to the South Pole for dancing the waltz with you.”

Both were right. While the season’s debutantes admired both the exquisite cut and unusual colour of Lady Harcourt’s dress, their mothers clicked their tongues in disapproval. (“Barely three months out of mourning,” hissed Lady Fournish to Lady Wislington who nodded. “She could have chosen a less noisy colour.” “Flinging herself at the Earl like that – one cannot understand what she hopes to achieve. She’s hardly in her prime.”) The young ladies’ views of the Earl, however, did not lean quite as strongly in his favour, despite their mothers’ assurances he was a prime catch. (“But Mama, he’s so _old_ ,” remarked Miss Prudence, a nervous brunette of seventeen years, while Miss Clara coolly observed, “I cannot see why they call him a Beau. He is not even remotely handsome.”)

Nobody, however, denied the fact that the Earl of Halsbury and the Viscountess Harcourt were amongst the most elegant couples on the dancefloor. The Earl was a tall man of slim built and while he was not conventionally handsome with his long nose and a receding hairline, nature had favoured him with proportions that pleased his tailor and made him easy to dress. No padding was needed to broaden his shoulders, no whalebones necessary to slim down his waist and his impeccable black knee breeches and silk stockings displayed long legs with well-shaped calves.

Lady Harcourt was a slender and graceful woman, tall as well, whose brown curls had been looped up into a soft bun with two sideways curls falling over the forehead on each side. Her elegant dress was made from a burnt orange coloured silk satin brocade and clung most enticingly to her shape. She was wearing simple, cream coloured pearls in her ears, around her neck and in her hair, and only the most jealous of females or those with high hopes for their own daughters would find faults in her appearance.

Her late husband, the Viscount Harcourt, had been a close friend of the Earl and when his young wife had presented him with an heir, no-one but ‘good old Myc’ would do as little Frederick’s godfather. Appalled at first at the idea of having a toddler shoved at him but not wishing to hurt his friend’s feelings, the Earl had accepted and much to his surprise, had quickly grown very fond of little Frederick. The shy young Viscountess, barely out of the schoolroom on her wedding day, grew into a lovely and confident woman whose quick wit and superior intelligence made her an excellent hostess to her husband’s diplomatic circles, and Mycroft had begun taking notice of her abilities, too. Two years ago, however, the Viscount had suffered a tragic hunting accident and when it had become obvious he would not recover from the fall he had taken, it had been the most natural thing for Mycroft to promise his dying friend he would watch over Frederick and manage his affairs until he came of age.

A little over a month ago, Lady Harcourt had moved back into her late husband’s townhouse on Half Moon Street and her excellent connections quickly reintroduced her into London’s society. It had not remained undetected that she and the Earl had become close friends, and tongues had quickly started wagging. It was whispered that the Earl of Halsbury might soon be off the market after all.

Mycroft looked down into Anthea’s face.

“And I am certain your admirers are wishing me to the North Pole,” he said in reply to her little jest. “Marry me, Anthea, and have all of this nonsense over and done with.”

Her clear blue eyes widened.

“What’s that, Mycroft? Are you proposing to me in the middle of a waltz?”

“I am. We have talked about this before.”

“I was in mourning back then.”

“You’re not anymore. You know we would have Andrew's blessing.”

She bit her lip and looked down, missed a step and almost stumbled. His arm tightened around her waist to prevent her from falling.

“Is my offer so unacceptable?”

“That’s not it, Mycroft, and you know that. It’s just that you –” her diplomatic skills failed her for a moment and she finished lamely, “– you don’t love me, you see, and I don’t love you.”

“What does it matter? We get along splendidly and little Frederick and I are good friends.”

“That you are,” she agreed warmly. “Uncle ‘croft is his hero. You know, he’s become quite a good rider and has already asked his Grandpapa for a real horse.”

Mycroft chuckled. “He is his father’s son.”

“He is indeed.”

“Will you consider my offer? We would all benefit from it and I would be a good husband to you.”

“I don’t doubt it. I will think about it, I promise.”

“Thank you. Now, you mentioned someone I should meet tonight? An old friend of Andrew's?”

“Yes and no. More of a close connection, not necessarily a friend. They met during Andrew's time in Russia. He is now in Wellington’s service and he mentioned a situation that seemed to worry him greatly. He wouldn’t reveal details to me but from what I gather it seems a document was stolen.”

“What kind of document?”

“I cannot say for sure but I guess it contains sensitive material that could cause serious damage with regards to the ongoing negotiations in Vienna.”

“I see. Has he arrived yet?”

“I am not certain.”

“Does he know Almack’s doors will remain closed to him if he arrives after eleven o’clock?”

“He does. I reminded him of it.”

“Let’s hope he remembers.”

 

The gentleman had remembered, and he stood waiting for them by the dancefloor. He was a stocky young man with a fresh, open face and serious blue eyes. He introduced himself as Mr Neville and begged the Earl’s forgiveness for imposing himself on him. Had it not been for Lady Harcourt’s insistence, he would never have approached him but she had assured him he would find the Earl to be a man of utmost discretion in all matters.

It became evident, after exchanging only a few sentences, that the matter was too delicate to be discussed at Almack’s and it was agreed that Mr Neville would call upon the Earl the next morning to talk about what had made him leave his employer’s side and return to London. He was astonished to learn that the Earl of Halsbury was an early riser and gladly accepted his invitation to join him for breakfast. The two men shook hands and Mr Neville, after almost shyly asking Lady Harcourt for the pleasure of dancing the quadrille with him, wandered off to make polite conversation.

The Earl followed him with his eyes.

“A remarkable young man,” he said. “From what I gather, he is going to prove himself a valuable addition to Wellington’s staff.”

“Andrew always said he was well suited for the diplomatic path.”

“He has indeed. Old Lannington must be bursting with pride. His daughters well married, his sons dutifully fulfilling their filial obligations.”

Anthea gently laid her hand on his arm.

“Do I detect a trace of bitterness in your voice, my dear friend?”

“Forgive me,” he begged. “It’s just that I sometimes wish –,” he broke off, lightly shaking his head. “It is of no consequence. One cannot undo what has happened. Allow me to escort you back to your seat before one of your fervent admirers decides to call me out.”

“Nonsense,” she said with a twinkle. “Nobody in his right mind would dream about calling you out. Your shooting prowess is well known and there are the most outrageous _on-dits_ about that walking stick of yours.”

“My dear Lady Harcourt, you are exaggerating.”

“Not at all. One hears that the former Captain of the 11th Hussars is regularly seen at Manton’s shooting gallery.”

“How shocking that you would know about Manton’s!”

The arrival of Lady Millings excused her from a reply and they parted, but not without agreeing to meet for an early morning ride in Hyde Park.

He danced a quadrille with the Duchess of Grafton who enquired about his mother’s health and afterwards grudgingly permitted her to introduce him to the daughter of her dear friend, Lady Dunne (“Miss Pratt has finally outgrown her freckles and has become quite the enchanting little flower. She plays the pianoforte and has the prettiest singing voice. I have no doubt she will make a charming wife.”). Under the watchful eyes of the two ladies he stood up with the painfully shy Miss Pratt for the cotillion, then danced a country dance with the dashing Lady Alton who came to rescue him from the matchmaking pair.

“Thank you,” he said with heartfelt sincerity. “I am forever in your debt.”

“Don’t thank me,” Lady Featherly, a stunningly beautiful woman who was dressed in a silvery-blue creation of deceptive simplicity. “You could put this to an end if only you made your choice.”

“How could I choose when you were snatched off the market by Alton, that treacherous snake?”

She laughed. “As if I had ever stood a chance with you, my dear Lord Halsbury. We all know your tastes run in another direction.”

“That direction leading straight into a far away corner where your rejected suitors meet to weep quietly into their handkerchiefs.”

“Abominable creature.” Her dimples showed and she indicated towards the other end of the formation where Lady Harcourt was going through the cotillion’s figures with a modish young gentleman. “Lady Harcourt is no longer in mourning.”

“So I see,” he agreed.

“You looked very elegant together when you danced the waltz.”

The next figure took them away from each other but when they faced each other again, she gave him an insistent look.

“Don’t let her be snapped up by somebody unworthy of her.”

“I will not,” he replied, earning another dimpled smile.

When the dance ended, he accompanied her to where her husband stood waiting for his lovely wife. He greeted the Earl with one of his easy smiles.

“Ah, Halsbury. How very fortunate I should meet you tonight. You see, I should like your opinion on a pair of bays I was thinking about buying…”

The next half hour was pleasantly spent discussing horses and politics and the Earl accepted the Marquess’ invitation to meet him at Tattersall’s the next day to inspect the bays himself. 

******

Upon his return to his house, Mycroft lit a candle, made his way upstairs into his bedroom, stripped and crawled into his bed. He snuffed the candle and concentrated on his breathing. Almack’s always exhausted him. The noise. The people. The mindless chitchat. More often than not, he left the sacred halls with an unpleasant humming sound in his left ear. If only there was a place where there was absolute silence. No voices. No music. Silence. A place for solitude, where one could work, study and read without being forced to converse. Maybe found a new club? 

His last thoughts before he fell asleep, however, went to his brother, hoping Sherlock hadn’t done anything foolish.

 


	3. The detective finds his patience tested

“I regret, sir, but his lordship is not in his chambers.”

The Earl raised his quizzing glass and eyed the unlucky individual who had dared respond to his request in the negative.

“I see. And has he left any instructions as to when he will be available to take his calls?”

“I, uh, well, the thing is –”

“Yes?”

The servant’s polished exterior started to crack under the haughty stare. Unbecoming red blotches manifested on his pale face.

“– the thing is,” he continued heroically, “one hears that his lordship has not yet returned from last night’s engagement.”

“Is that so.”

The quizzing glass vanished, much to the man’s relief.

“If I may, my lord –,” he ventured but was cut short.

“You may not. You may, however, tell my brother that I have called.” Mycroft reached into a pocket of his elegant overcoat. “My card.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked down the stairs towards where his carriage stood waiting.

“White’s,” he instructed his coachman. His tiger closed the door behind him and he leaned back, frowning. Sherlock not returning from his nightly endeavours was never a good sign and he felt the all too familiar feeling of worry starting to tug at him, keeping his mind occupied with various nightmarish visions of what his troublesome little brother might have got himself into this time. It was with considerable effort that he pushed his worries aside the minute he entered White’s. The matter at hand was too delicate not to be given full attention. He had learnt from Mr Neville during their meeting the day before that a certain document had disappeared, a document containing information sensitive enough to cause severe damage when ending up in the wrong hands. Tsar Alexander and the Duke of Metternich would be most interested to learn how Britain, Austria and France planned to approach the Polish-Saxon crisis. Inacceptable.

******

At the same time, in a less fashionable quarter of London, said troublesome brother stepped through the door of a small, modest house, squinted and shielded his eyes against the pale morning sun. His clothes were in a sad state, his necktie crumpled, the elegant waistcoat half unbuttoned and his hair in shocking disarray.

“Have you spoken to the dead man’s wife yet?”

The question was directed at a tired-looking man clad in somber shades of brown who barely managed to suppress his sigh upon hearing his visitor’s voice.

“Yes, Holmes, I have spoken to the widow. I take it you have awoken from your slumber?”

“How very observant you are, detective. Stating the obvious. Impressive. Care to share your findings? Meagre though they might be?”

“Ah, so that must be your latest stray.” The sharp-faced man the detective had been talking to looked Sherlock up and down. “A nobleman, eh. Been where he had no business being, I take it. Really, Mr Lestrade, one day that soft heart of yours is going to be your downfall.”

“Let’s hope that when that day comes, it won’t be your table I’ll end up on,” Lestrade said, slightly annoyed. “Listen, Holmes, we’ve talked about this before. I am not at liberty to discuss Bow Street business with you –”

He was interrupted by a rude snort.

“What does it matter? The man is dead and no harm will befall him if you share your findings with me. Or your non-findings, for that matter.” Sherlock leaned against the door jamb, turning away from the sunlight. “Can you tell me anything about your conversation with the dead man’s wife?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Well, contrary to first assumptions, Mr Anderson’s examination of the dead man’s body showed there were no signs of a struggle found, so it was concluded it was nothing but a tragic accident. However, it appears the widow thinks otherwise and accuses her late husband’s younger brother.”

“What is the man’s income? And is there a title?”

“His income must be between two and three thousand pounds per year. No title but a prospering cotton mill business up in Yorkshire. I understand from his wife he was about to acquire some land, that’s why they had rented a townhouse for the season.”

“People kill for less.”

“They do, but the brother lives in Yorkshire and only visits London for business. He handles his brother’s business accounts and oversees the running of the mills. Wife says he loathes the city and is a country lad through and through.”

“Hardly a reason not to snatch up such a handsome sum.”

“He wasn’t even in London when his brother died,” Lestrade pointed out.

Sherlock tapped a finger to his lips.

“Can you make a drawing for me?”

“What?”

“Draw the scene of the accident?” Sherlock repeated impatiently.

“I think I could,” Lestrade said, a little dubiously. “I have ink and paper inside.”

“Mr Lestrade, really,” Anderson cut in. “Do you think it’s wise to involve a mere civilian in matters of the police?”

“I’m not actively involving him. I will make a little sketch for him and listen to what he has to say. Maybe his insight will help to bring this case to a close.”

“Mr Lestrade, with all due respect, I don’t see what good this will bring. The man has clearly died of an accident and while it is unfortunate, it is hardly unusual.”

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted, already back inside. “Where do you keep your ink?”

“Coming!” Lestrade shouted back. “Well, Mr Anderson, in my opinion it is never wrong to consult a fresh mind. Now if you will excuse me?”

“Fresh mind indeed,” muttered Anderson. “I will be at my desk, or working with the other policemen. Some of us have real investigations to conduct.”

“Yes yes,” Lestrade was already on his way inside. “I will be with you shortly.”

Inside, he fetched a small inkpot from a shelf by his bed. Sherlock had already placed an empty sheet of paper and the pen on the crude surface of the plain table that served both as writing desk and as dining table and Lestrade sat down, creased his brow and, after a moment of contemplation, made a rough sketch. Sherlock took it from him, looked at it and frowned.

“Hm. Wall, flower bed, path. Not much there to actually prove the theory of an accident.”

“I know. I’m at wits end,” Lestrade said tiredly.

“Hardly a surprise.” Sherlock ignored the other man's hurt look and tapped his forefingers to his lips again. “No clues, solid alibi, case stuck. I like it.” He nodded to himself as if he had reached a decision. “I will help you with that.”

“With what?”

“The case, Lestrade, the case. Good God, what’s it like in your funny little brain? Must be so boring.”

“At least ‘boring’ does not necessitate being collected from the most hideous of opium dens,” Lestrade snapped, his patience nearing the end. “This must have been the fifth time I have been called to pick you up there. For a man priding himself on his massive intellect, this is remarkably stupid, is it not?”

Sherlock raised his chin mulishly.

“It helps me think. Clears my mind. Makes it easier to focus.”

“Didn’t look very clear to me.”

“That is because you barely tap into your intellectual resources. Not that it would make much of a difference,” he added.

“Thank you, that’s quite enough. Don’t make me change my mind about involving you in the investigation.”

“You would involve me?”

It sounded almost eager, and Lestrade had to hide a smile. The young man’s face had transformed from a mask of carefully constructed boredom to an expression of such hope that it would have felt like kicking a pup away.

“Yes. Lord have mercy but I do need all the help I can get. You’ve given me some remarkably good advice in the past and I believe your insight here will be most helpful.”

Sherlock all but leapt from the chair and reached for his beaver hat.

“Will you let me speak to the woman? I’m certain there are details to be found that you have overlooked.”

“I reckon there are,” Lestrade said in a dry voice. “However, dear boy, the late Mr Downing was a very respectable businessman and his widow is a very respectable woman. I cannot present a consulting investigator who looks like he is about to shoot the cat. Not the thing at all.”

“I do not look like I’m about to shoot the cat,” Sherlock protested.

“Begging your pardon, Holmes, but you do.” He pointed towards a shaving mirror hanging above a wash basin. “Check for yourself if you doubt my words.”

Glaring at the detective, Sherlock crossed the room to inspect his face in the mirror. He turned to Lestrade with a rueful grin.

“Good heavens, but I do look a little bosky.”

“Thank you for agreeing.”

“Very well, I shall go to my lodgings and clean myself up. A good shave, a change of clothes and a light breakfast and I will be as good as new.”

“Breakfast? It is well past ten. A bit late for breakfast, isn’t it, even in polite circles.”

“Pffft,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, “call it a nuncheon then. At what hour should we meet?”

Lestrade glanced at his pocket-watch.

“I am to make my rounds until after noon, and I need to write up a report on another case.” He snapped the watch shut and restored it safely. “I will send a boy to Mrs Downing to see if she is willing to speak with us this afternoon. Would four o’clock suit you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good,” Lestrade said, satisfied. “I will come by in a hack. Where are your lodgings?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I live on –,” he began, then shook his head. “It doesn’t signify. I shall meet you at Mrs Downing’s house. Address?”

“We will arrive there together. It will not do for you to show up unannounced.”

“I will not show up unannounced. You said you were going to send a boy with a message.”

“Announcing Bow Street,” Lestrade pointed out. “You are not with Bow Street and therefore you will not go there without me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, detective.”

Sherlock made no effort to conceal the mockery in his voice but Lestrade chose not to comment.

“Very well. Meet me at number four Bow Street.” He pulled on his heavy overcoat, put on his hat and reached for his truncheon. “Will you find your way back on your own, or should I escort you to the main street?”

A derisive snort was the answer to that. Lestrade shook his head and patiently waited for Sherlock to button his overcoat and put the beaver hat on.

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock said in lieu of a farewell.

“What?”

“You shall announce me as a consulting detective. Has a right and proper sound to it. Dragging a mere civilian into Bow Street business might shed a funny light on policing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I won’t disagree. Consulting detective it is.”

After they had shaken hands and parted their ways, Lestrade looked after the tall young man until he was out of sight.

Sherlock Holmes. What to make of him?

 


	4. The detective finds himself surprised

 

Lestrade eyed the elegant figure waiting for him outside the Runners’ building.

“Well, look at that. Fine feathers make fine birds. You look a changed man, Holmes.”

Strictly speaking, he had noticed the quality of Holmes’ clothing the night he had first dragged the half-unconscious man out of the opium den. No matter how sad the state the young man had been in, the fine cloth and exquisite cut of his attire had not been lost on Lestrade. Now, however, he saw him tidied up for the first time and everything about his latest ‘stray’, as Anderson had dubbed him, identified him to be the gentleman Lestrade had taken him for. It was not the impeccable fit of the dark grey overcoat and the glossy hessians alone for those could be acquired by anyone with sufficient means; rather, it showed in the careless ease with which these fine clothes were worn, a certain bearing, the arrogant lifting of an eyebrow upon Lestrade’s greeting.

“So good of you to approve, detective. I believe we have a case to solve, yes?”

“That is correct.”

“Well then, let’s not waste time on idle chit-chat. Here’s a hackney. Shall we?”

“By all means.”

Sherlock climbed into the hackney first and settled into the worn seat while Lestrade provided the driver with the address. The house the Downings had rented for the season was located in Mayfair, and Lestrade made good use of the time by updating Sherlock on everything he had found out about the case.

“Downing was found lying dead by the back entrance of the house, right next to the flower bed. There’s a tiny patch of a garden with just enough room for two or three benches, no pond, no walkway worth mentioning. No windows on that side of the house so there’s no chance he could have fallen or be pushed out of a window. Besides, his body didn’t look as if he had fallen.”

“Footprints in the flower bed?”

“No. I looked,” Lestrade said, a little defensively when Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “It’s not my first investigation. I know what to look for.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock didn’t sound convinced. “Go on. Is it a wide path? Cobblestone? Paved?"

“I’d say it’s fairly narrow. Loose gravel. Not dangerous to walk on, however, all nicely kept in order.”

“Mhm,” Sherlock said again, stapling his fingers together. “The widow. What is she like?”

“She is a very sensible woman. When I spoke to her, she was in shock but still very composed. Doesn’t seem to fall into hysterics.” He frowned. “One thing I did notice that struck me as odd.”

“Yes?”

“The sitting room smelled very strongly of frankincense. I thought nothing of it at first because my –” he interrupted himself, cleared his throat and continued, “Someone I used to be acquainted with used frankincense in her home, too, and I’m familiar with the smell. When I started questioning her about her late husband’s accident and what might have caused it, she reached for a small bowl, dipped her fingers in and threw something over her shoulder.”

“Salt?” Sherlock asked and Lestrade nodded.

“Indeed. It was then that I remembered that frankincense is said to ward off evil spirits and mishaps.”

“So Mrs Downing is a superstitious woman.”

“It would seem so. I asked her if her husband had been of a superstitious nature, too, and she confirmed it. Would enter his office only with the right foot, would open a new business only on a Thursday, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock made a non-descript noise and Lestrade grinned.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it. Here’s a successful, respectable businessman, about to become a landowner, and yet he believes in such nonsense.”

“Don’t you?”

“I certainly do not.”

“I’m relieved. Smaller-minded people tend to believe in portents, fate and destiny.”

“Are you implying that you are taking me for a smaller-minded person?”

“Better than most, but there are limits, yes.”

“Well thank you,” Lestrade bristled. “How good of you to step down from up high to rub shoulders with a small-minded individual such as myself.”

“No need to fly up into the boughs, detective.”

“How would you like to be called stupid?”

“I did not call you stupid.”

“You implied as much.”

“You cannot blame me for what you extract from my words. Come now,” Sherlock said in a conciliatory tone, “let’s not pull caps with each other. Let me assure you I myself have been called numerous things.”

“Hardly surprising. Insufferable being amongst them?”

“Yes, and _insolent_ is another champion.” He tapped his fingers against his hat. “So we have a respectable businessman with superstitious beliefs, an accident confirmed by the coroner, an assumption supported by neither the dead man’s wife nor the investigating detective, a younger brother suspected of murder by the widow but away from London while the so-called accident happened… I will have to search the premises.”

“Promise me you will do nothing of the sort without Mrs Downing’s permission.”

“Taking a look at the path hardly calls for –”

“Promise me,” Lestrade insisted and Sherlock mumbled an unwilling consent.

They rode in silence for a while, each lost in his thoughts. Lestrade stole a glance at the young man next to him who stared out of the small window and wondered, not for the first time, if the name he had given him was real. ‘Sherlock Holmes’ sounded too much like a name out of a dramatic play. And he did not look like a mere Mr Holmes, either. He was of noble birth, that much was certain. A younger son, most likely, with too much time on his hands. Although Lestrade did not move in upper circles himself and was not on intimate terms with any member of the _ton_ , he had seen the likes of young Holmes. Young men with no real purpose in life, their older brothers taking over their fathers’ titles and land, leaving their younger siblings with not many options. Buy a commission, take the Holy Orders, find employment in the service of another member of the _ton_ in need of a secretary… none of these options were attractive for those wealthy enough to lead a life of leisure.

Holmes was not the first man he had ever carried out of an opium den or gaming hell, half unconscious, near dead and Lestrade doubted he would be the last.

“Out with it,” Holmes said, not taking his eyes off the road.

“What?”

“I can hear your thoughts. They are deafening.”

“Turning mind reader, Holmes?”

“That’s hardly necessary. So, what’s that question that’s burning on your tongue?”

“Who are you?” Lestrade asked. “Is Sherlock Holmes your real name?”

“Of course it is. Why would I give a fake name?”

Lestrade shrugged. “It’s a very unusual name, Sherlock. Reminds me of a drama I saw on stage once, when I was younger.”

“Shylock.”

“What?”

“You are referring to Shylock. Venetian Jewish moneylender, Shakespeare. Very melodramatic, if you ask me. But Sherlock is the name my mother chose to give me. What else?”

“Shouldn’t it be Lord Holmes or something?”

Sherlock finally turned away from the window, snorting.

“No such thing. Holmes will do. I don’t care about titles. They say nothing about a man. Titles and all they entail are for my broth- ” He broke off.

“Your brother?” Lestrade’s ears pricked up. “So you have an older brother? With a title?”

“It doesn’t signify,” Sherlock said dismissively. “He is of no interest to you.”

Lestrade filed the valuable bit of information away for possible later use.

“What of you, detective? Your name is French but there is not a hint of an accent in your speech, on the contrary, there’s a trace of West Country dialect. It has washed away over the years spent in London but it becomes more pronounced when something upsets you. Devon? No, Somerset, most likely. Either way, you are too old to have fled France during the Revolution and have most likely grown up here.”

“What do you mean by that? People of all age groups have fled France.”

“You are, what, forty? Three-and-forty?”

“Seven-and-thirty,” Lestrade said, a little stiffly.

“Oh. Younger than I thought. Must be the grey in your hair. So you were about twenty when people started fleeing the country. People of an advanced age tend to learn a new language with considerably more difficulties and they usually keep an accent.”

“Twenty hardly counts as advanced age, Holmes, and there are some who pick up languages quickly even when they are older.”

“But you are not one of them.”

“Listen, you insolent –,” Lestrade started but then grinned in spite of himself. “Yes, I see how this attribute must have become a champion when referring to you. But to cut your display of superior intelligence short, my father left France when I was a very young lad. I remember next to nothing of it and I have grown up in North Somerset, just as you have guessed.”

“I don’t guess. I observe and make a deduction.”

“As you wish. What else have you deduced, then?”

“Let’s see.” Holmes fixed his eyes on the detective in a way that made Lestrade fight the urge to squirm in his seat. “Your coroner, a most detestable creature, by the way, saw it fit to call me your latest stray. That, and the fact that you have seen to my, ah, indispositions with a calm that was refreshingly different from being fretted over in the most ridiculous manner – yes, Lestrade, I have noticed and am thankful for it – tells me you have either grown up with numerous younger siblings you were used to be in charge of or you have children of your own. However, there are no signs of a family in your house so I take it it’s the first option. In addition, you own a house in the city. It’s a small and somewhat dowdy house in a less than fashionable but not unpleasant part of London, but it is a house nevertheless which is more than a Runner’s salary should afford. From what I have seen so far, you don’t seem easily corruptible – I might be wrong, of course – and so you either have come into some money or you have an additional source of income.” Sherlock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I think – ”

He was interrupted when the hackney came to a halt and Lestrade barely managed to suppress his sigh of relief. He had not expected Holmes to come that close to the truth, a truth Lestrade did not feel comfortable sharing.

They climbed out of the hackney and Lestrade paid the driver while Holmes waited impatiently, all but tapping his foot.

“Which house?”

Lestrade pointed. The Downings had rented a house of moderate size but without the slightest hint at shabbiness. Its owner clearly took pride in his property, wishing to present his guests with as much comfort as was possible for a house that wasn’t their own and to provide them with the chance to present themselves in the most respectable manner. The brass fence gleamed, the short flight of stairs leading up to the front door was without a speck and the windows reflected the pale afternoon sun.

Holmes’ eyes narrowed as he took it all in. Lestrade could almost hear the whirring of the wheels in the young man’s amazing brain and wondered what Holmes saw that he himself had missed.

“Come, Holmes,” he called over his shoulder as he walked up the steps towards the door. “You can look around later.”

He rapped the brass door knocker. The door was opened almost immediately and an individual of indeterminable age peered at him disapprovingly.

“Good day,” Lestrade cheerfully said, produced his card and handed it to the disapproving servant who took it with a look of disgust. “We are expected by Mrs Downing. The name’s Lestrade, I’m here on Bow Street business and this,” he gestured to where Holmes stood, still studying the surroundings of the house, “is Mr Holmes, my associate and our consulting detective.”

The disapproving glance shifted from Lestrade to Holmes who was taking the steps two at a time.

“Very good,” the man stiffly said. “If you will please follow me into the drawing room. Mrs Downing will be with you shortly.”

They were shown into a drawing room of moderate size, furnished with a sofa that sat two, a small coffee table and two uncomfortable looking, but very fashionable chairs. An assortment of refreshments was laid out on a cupboard opposite a small fireplace and the curtains were drawn back to allow the afternoon sun in, something that indicated towards Mrs Downing valuing the cost of candles more dearly than her complexion.

As the disapproving servant turned to go, Holmes’ eyes fixed on him.

“It would be wise to pay attention to the state of your lapels if you do not wish your employer to find out about your unlucky attachment to her maid.”

Lestrade watched with interest as the man visibly froze, then bowed and stalked out of the room, red as a beet root.

“What was that?” he asked, intrigued.

Holmes shrugged. “It is obvious. The seam of his –”

A rustle of starched material announced the arrival of the late merchant’s widow. Mrs Downing was a sharp-faced woman of middle height in full mourning dress, as befitted her station. The dress itself was modishly cut but not outrageously so, rather, it was a remarkable blend of tact and taste, a mixture not often found in those wishing to climb the social ladder. She addressed her visitors in a quiet manner, her voice well-modulated with only a trace of a Yorkshire accent.

“Detective Lestrade, how kind of you to take another look at the so-called accident,” she said, extending her hand to Lestrade who bowed over it politely.

“How do you do, Mrs Downing. It is I who has to thank you for being willing to answer a few more questions. I realise how painful it must be for you.”

“Not nearly as painful as having to bury my husband in the knowledge that his brother got away with murder.” She directed her gaze to Holmes. “I take it this is the detective consultant you mentioned in your note?”

“Consulting detective,” Holmes corrected, stepping forward to bow over the hand that was offered to him. His haughty demeanour had changed into that of a gentleman and the smile he bestowed on the widow was both friendly and concerned. “Sherlock Holmes. Thank you for agreeing to see us. Mr Lestrade has shared his findings with me but with your permission, I should like to ask you some more questions. If anything I say or ask makes you feel uncomfortable, please tell me at once. It is not my wish to upset you.”

The widow inclined her head, indicating her approval and gestured for them to take a seat. She offered them refreshments which they politely declined and Holmes began by asking questions of a more general nature; when had they arrived in London, had her husband’s brother accompanied them, had there been arguments between the brothers, what had their relationship been like, had the land deeds already been signed. He moved on to questions of a more personal nature but kept his tone respectful enough for Mrs Downing to reply in full while Lestrade, after overcoming a mild shock of witnessing his usually brusque, if not rude, consulting detective thus transformed, frantically scribbled into his notebook.

“Why did you think the present your late husband received from his brother was an unusual one?”

“Mr Downing was not much of a drinker,” Mrs Downing replied, “although he liked to take a glass or two of sherry with his meals, or brandy with his business partners when a transaction had been successfully come to a close. He preferred to drink tea throughout the day, saying it kept his head clear for business. When his brother presented him with a bottle of whiskey – a vile, foul-smelling brew, if you ask me – he put it away without opening it.”

“Where is the bottle now? May I see it?”

“Certainly.” Mrs Downing got up from her chair and walked over to the cupboard. She reached for a bottle that was half empty, visibly started and turned to Holmes with an expression of bewilderment on her face.

“You must think me very unobservant but I had not noticed the bottle had been opened.” She made an apologetic gesture. “I strive not to let myself be overwhelmed by bouts of sensitivities but I will own the last few days have been a trifle testing.”

There was a slight tremble in her voice which she tried to conceal by clearing her throat.

“No need to apologise, Mrs Downing,” Lestrade said. “You have suffered a great loss. There is no shame in missing something as small as a bottle that has been half emptied when there are more important things to be taken care of.”

He noticed Holmes raising an eyebrow but Mrs Downing gave him a grateful smile.

“Thank you for understanding, detective.”

When Holmes’ questions were sufficiently answered, he asked to see the garden. Mrs Downing rang for the servant and, excusing herself on matters of a more personal nature, bid them farewell and asked to be kept informed on possible developments. Lestrade assured her he would contact her immediately, and they were shown to the back door that opened to a small patch of green.

Lestrade watched Holmes as he inspected the path and the surroundings. He bent to take a closer look at the flower pots lined up in the effort of creating the illusion of an actual garden, studied the wall, the flower bed, got on his knees to examine the gravel with the help of a magnifying lens.

After a while, Lestrade started rubbing his hands together. Although it was March and the promise of spring hung in the air, the nights were still unpleasantly chilly and the ground mostly frozen. The sun would soon be gone and the cold began to creep in.

“How much longer, Holmes? I don’t know about you but I’m starting to freeze. Besides, it’s getting dark.”

Holmes looked up, frowning.

“And again you are stating the obvious. I had noticed, thank you.”

He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced two small envelopes, placed some of the gravel into one and some more into the other and rose with fluid grace, as if the cold didn’t bother him at all.

“What do you intend to do with that?” Lestrade asked.

Holmes gave him a look usually reserved for especially slow-witted children and Lestrade all but ducked his head under it.

“I intend to examine it,” he replied. “I believe I have found something but I need to verify it.”

“Oh.”

“I take it the thought has not occurred to you?”

“It hasn’t,” Lestrade admitted, feeling utterly foolish, and Holmes huffed.

“It amazes me how you Runners manage to solve any crime at all.”

“I don’t see what dirt has anything to do with it.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Enlighten me?”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a very tall footman, dressed in a livery of the household’s nondescript green.

“Mr Wently has instructed me to see how you are faring,” he said, somewhat stiffly. Lestrade concluded that Mr Wently was the disapproving servant whose feathers had been so inexcusably ruffled by Holmes’ callous remark about his lapels that he had deemed it necessary to express his pain by delegating the task of looking after his mistress’ visitors to a mere footman.

“That is most considerate of Mr Wently,” Lestrade replied, stifling a grin. “We are done here for today.”

“Very well.” The footman favoured them with a small bow. “I will show you outside, if you allow.”

They followed him through the hallway to the front door and stepped outside. Lestrade buried his hands in his pockets and, no hackney in sight, they walked in silence for a while.

“So,” he finally ventured, “what is it you hope to find in the dirt you picked up?”

Holmes hummed. “I believe I have spotted something that is worth investigating but I need to verify my findings. Speculation will lead us nowhere. I will be in touch shortly.”

“And when will that be, you think?”

A shrug was all the reply he got.

They turned around the corner and Holmes raised his arm to hail an oncoming hackney. The driver slowed his horses to a halt and Holmes reached to open the door but the noise of thundering hooves coming closer made the horses shy, throwing their heads up, ready to bolt from something they clearly perceived as dangerous. Lestrade reached for the bridles of the one closest to him, trying to soothe the frightened creature as best he could.

A smart curricle swept around the corner at breakneck speed, its greys masterfully handled by a tall figure in a caped overcoat. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared and Lestrade stared after it, torn between outrage at the driver’s blatant disregard for the safety of others, and admiration for the display of such skill with a whip.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, more to himself. “What on earth was that?”

He patted the horse’s neck and, seeing the creature’s phlegmatic nature was taking over again, joined Holmes.

“That,” said Holmes in a bored voice, “was one of the most dangerous men you’ll ever meet and not my problem right now.”

“You know him?”

“Of course I do.” Holmes settled back and closed his eyes. “He’s the Earl of Halsbury.”

“I see. Do I need to remember his name?”

“That is entirely up to you, detective.”

“Then why did you point him out to me?”

“Given your previous curiosity about my person, I thought you might find it interesting.”

“How so?”

“He is my brother.”

 

 


	5. His Lordship reaches a conclusion

It took a while for Lestrade’s brain to catch up with his ears.

“Your brother?” he repeated, dumbstruck. “The Earl of Halsbury is your brother?”

Holmes looked at him like one would look at a common beetle crawling across one’s trouser leg.

“That is what I said, is it not?”

Lestrade opened his mouth and closed it again, then asked, “And why are you telling me this?”

“You seemed interested in my personal affairs when we set out on our little journey to the Downing’s house.”

“You didn’t appear willing to disclose anything concerning your personal affairs.”

Holmes considered this. “It didn’t seem significant at the time.”

“And now it is?”

“I told you my real name and you are a persistent enough policeman. It occurred to me that by providing you with the information you no doubt would seek to obtain by yourself I would do you a favour and save valuable police time.”

“Much obliged.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“So, if the Earl of Halsbury is your brother, that makes you what?”

“Still a consulting detective.”

“By the name of Holmes.”

“By the name of Holmes,” Holmes confirmed. Then, with a sigh, he added, “But if you must know, I am more commonly known as the Viscount Tiverton.”

“I knew it,” Lestrade said triumphantly. “A viscount.”

“Would it be too much to ask not to use that title when I am consulting for you?”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. There was an urgent tone in Holmes’ voice, a plea even, and his ever changing, cool eyes that tended to look at the world with barely concealed disdain now held an expression that made him swallow his reply. Here was a young man desperate to step out of his brother’s shadow, to prove his own worth in the eyes of the world, and if consulting for Bow Street was the escape rope needed to pull him away from the opium dens and gaming hells, then by God, he would see to it.

He gave Holmes a curt nod.

“Very well, if you insist. Holmes it shall be.”

“Thank you.” It came out almost shyly, followed by an abrupt clearing of his throat. “I will examine the samples I took as soon as the necessary instruments are available to me. Once my findings are verified, I will be in touch.”

“Can you assess how long this will take?”

Holmes shrugged a shoulder.

“Hard to say. I will call on my… associate immediately after dropping you off. With any luck, I will have access to the laboratory this evening. If not today, then tomorrow.”

“Your associate?”

“Somebody I know. It’s not a concern of yours,” Holmes replied somewhat evasively and when Lestrade’s eyes narrowed in suspicion added, “Oh come on, Lestrade. I give you my word I am not going to break into anybody’s workshop. It is an unusual arrangement but perfectly within legal boundaries.”

“If you say so,” Lestrade wasn’t convinced and Holmes huffed.

“I do.” He looked out of the window. “And here is where our merry ways part for today.” He leaned forward to signal for the driver to stop. “I have things to take care of and I am sure you have some policing to do.”

The hackney stopped and Lestrade got out.

“I will send word as soon as I have the results.” Holmes tipped his fingers to his beaver hat in a mock salute. “I wish you a pleasant evening, detective.”

“Thank you, Holmes, the same to you. Try and stay out of trouble, yes?”

He met Holmes’ scowl with a wide grin but when the hackney set into motion, he tapped a finger to his lips. The Earl of Halsbury. Viscount Tiverton. An unknown associate with access to more or less scientific instruments.

There was indeed some policing to do.

******

It was too early in the morning for the _ton_ to crowd Hyde Park and the Earl of Halsbury enjoyed an undisturbed drive with his new team of bays, congratulating himself on his decision to snatch them away from under Lord Alton’s nose. It was a spirited team, with the wheelers being of a more gentle nature than the temperamental leaders and it was a joy driving them although the left leader needed gentle correcting here and there.

The air was crisp and clear and there were no other sounds than the birds willing spring to make a permanent appearance by the power of their songs, the noise of his curricle’s wheels, the beating of his horses’ hooves and the occasional nicker. It was the Earl’s favourite time of the day, precious moments he had all to himself and that he generally refused to share with anyone but his horses and his tiger who perched behind him.

There was, however, one who was excepted from his iron rule, and she was fast approaching him in her smart curricle drawn by a lively pair of dapple greys and holding her whip at a precise angle, cutting a dashing figure in a severely cut driving habit of a striking emerald green with only two rows of golden buttons to adorn its deceptively simple front.

Lady Harcourt pulled up next to him and greeted him with a smile.

“Good morning, Lord Halsbury. I see you are flaunting your latest acquisition?”

He bowed and returned her smile.

“One can hardly call it flaunting when there is nobody to impress.”

“Oh, am I nobody to you? Abominable creature!” she chided him but there was laughter in her eyes. “I met Lady Alton yesterday and she told me her poor husband was caught in a fit of the blue-devils. He had his eyes set on this team as well.”

“Had he made up his mind a trifle quicker it would have been his to flaunt.”

“Evil.”

With a chuckle, he held out his hand to her.

“Will you do me the honour of joining me for a round?”

She hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to watch the Earl’s new team from up close and the unwillingness to hand over her own pair to her groom. Curiosity won, however, and she handed her whip to her groom who had already climbed down from his seat to hold his mistress’ horses.

The Earl, handing his reins and whip to his tiger, jumped down and offered his assistance to Lady Harcourt who gratefully accepted his arm. When she was seated next to the Earl, she turned to her groom who had taken the curricle’s driver’s seat.

“Tell Ms Saunders I will be home shortly,” she said. “Ask her to get Master Frederick ready for I believe he will want to see his uncle. You will say hello to Freddy, will you?” she asked, placing a hand on the Earl’s arm.

“But of course I will,” he assured her. “I will not deliver you to your house and then sneak off like a thief in the night.”

“I was certain you would say that,” she said warmly. “It would break his heart if you did.” She nodded to her groom. “Thank you, Timmins, that will be all. His lordship will see me home.”

“Very well, my lady.” Timmins bowed and with a light flick of the whip over the horses’ backs made them turn around and drove back in the direction from where they had come.

Anthea followed him with her eyes and sighed.

“I know I have nothing to worry about. Timmins has an excellent hand, or else Andrew would never have employed him. And yet, I so dislike it when I have to give over my horses to somebody else. That makes me quite the ridiculous goose, does it not?”

“It does not. I don’t let anybody drive my teams.”

“You have let me drive your greys.”

“Of course I have. You’re not anybody. Besides, you are a much better whip than Andrew ever was and he knew it, too. You are a first-rate fiddler, my dear.” He set his team into motion and they trotted off at a brisk pace. “If the FHC ever allowed women to become members, I would happily second your candidature.”

“But not your brother’s?”

“Good God, no. Sherlock is an excellent horseman who will master the most horrible of bone-setters in the blink of an eye but I would not trust him with any of my pairs, let alone with a team.”

“That is not a kind thing to say.”

“It is the truth nevertheless.” He looked at her. “That is a very fetching little hat you’re wearing, Anthea,” he said approvingly.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Cousin Phoebe insisted she trim it to match my driving jacket.”

“She chose well.”

“She will be pleased to hear it. I wasn’t sure about the feather,” she lightly pulled at the ostrich plume that curled boldly across the brim. “Do you not think it is a bit much?”

“Quite the contrary. It is very dashing.”

They rode in silence for a while.

“Beautiful steppers,” she remarked as they turned around a corner. “That is a very sweetgoing team, Mycroft. You will enjoy driving them.”

“I can’t wait to try them on the high-perch phaeton,” Mycroft admitted. “But I thought it wise to choose the curricle for the first ride with them.”

He pulled the horses to a halt and said over his shoulder, “Jem, be so kind as to leave us. I wish to discuss something with Lady Harcourt that is intended for her ears only.”

His tiger, a skinny young man of undeterminable age, jumped off his seat at once and approached his master with a look of such disapproval on his face that Anthea had to turn away and feign a sudden coughing fit to hide the laughter threatening to well up.

“But guv’nor,” Jem protested in a raspy voice that belied his elfin looks, “begging your pardon, but you know that I’m deaf and blind when you’re holding your conversations. You can’t send me away just like that. What happens if your horses bolt?”

“Jem,” Mycroft patiently said, “the horses will not bolt and you know very well that both Lady Harcourt and I are perfectly able to handle a nervous team. Your sense of duty does you credit but I believe we will survive one or two rounds without your protection.” He reached into his pocket and tossed his disgruntled servant a few coins. “Why don’t you treat yourself to a second breakfast,” he suggested. “To ease the pain.”

The look he received was that of an orphan about to be sent away to spend the rest of his miserable days as a doomed galley slave but Mycroft didn’t let himself be blackmailed. He nodded his dismissal, flicked the whip and drove off, leaving his tiger behind.

Once they were out of earshot, Anthea couldn’t suppress her amusement any longer.

“Poor Jem!” she gurgled. “I wonder how you could resist that hurt look. I know I couldn’t.”

“Oh, never mind him,” Mycroft said dismissively. “I’d lay you a wager he is already stuffing himself at that small cart we passed earlier.” He found her mirth contagious and started laughing, too. “Sometimes I wonder who is master and who is servant. I must own I am grateful that he and Gibson get along so well. A battle between my valet and my tiger would be most undesirable.”

“I am sure it would be,” Anthea agreed. “Fatal, more likely.”

“Very likely.”

“What is it you wished to discuss with me, Mycroft?”

Her tone had taken on a more serious note and he replied in kind.

“I have spoken with young Neville and have made some enquiries since then. While the missing document contains information sensitive enough to put the British emissary into an uncomfortable position, it is not as severe as I had feared.”

“How so?”

“I understand the papers have not found their way into the hands of the Prussians so far and may yet be retrieved.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Are you familiar with a certain Ms Adler?”

Anthea raised her eyebrows. “Mycroft, you are not referring to Ms Irene Adler?”

“The very same.”

“You can hardly expect me to be on intimate terms with a person of her reputation.”

“Certainly not on intimate terms, but am I so wrong in assuming that you are at least acquainted with her on a basic level?”

“Very basic,” she said, a little stiffly. “Am I to seek her out?”

“Of course not.” He glanced over at her. “Anthea, do you think you could point somebody out to me who would? Seek her out, I mean? Somebody who could distract her and hold her attention for long enough to have her house searched?”

“You think the document is with her?”

“Unlikely. But I am fairly certain she would have connections to the one who does.”

“Hm.” Anthea’s eyes focussed on a point somewhere in the far distance. She frowned, worrying her lower lip. “Yes, I believe there is one young gentleman who may be suitable to play that part. He is handsome, charming and intelligent enough. Would you like me to send him a message to call on me?”

“Indeed I would. Do you think he will be able to withstand the temptation of tasting from her honey trap?”

“I am most certain he will,” she said dryly. “He leans toward your attitude where the fair sex is concerned.”

“Oh.” Her blunt statement took him by surprise. Then he smiled. “And again you are proving your worth a hundred times over. I knew I could count on you.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Anthea. I am once more in your debt.”

“Do not thank me yet,” she replied, returning the squeeze. “I have yet to speak with him. Do I have your permission to mention your name or would you prefer me to direct him to your usual contact?”

“Not this time.” He moved the whip from his right to his left and reached into his pocket, produced a slim case and handed it to her. “Here, take one of my cards, please.”

She did as she was told and handed the case back to him.

“When you are convinced that he is the man we need for this task, please give him my card and send him to me. Make sure he refers to you when presenting his card and he will be shown into the library instead of being sent away.”

“I understand.” She tucked his card into her reticule. “I will have a message delivered to him this afternoon. He should have returned from Bath by now.”

“Bath?” Mycroft echoed. “At this time of year?”

“His grandmother lives there. He is very attached to her, and I have heard she has fallen quite ill. It does not surprise me he has gone to look after her.”

Their conversation turned towards mutual acquaintances and they chatted amicably, stopping only to pick Jem back up who tried to re-apply the hurt look to his face when the curricle pulled up.

“Crumbs, Jem,” Mycroft said, unmoved, when his tiger assumed his usual position behind the seat. “Please do tidy up. I do not wish my servants to appear negligent with their liveries. It reflects badly on my name and that would be most appalling, would it not.”

An incomprehensible mutter was the answer to that.

“Lost the ability to speak along with the ability to look after yourself?” Mycroft’s voice held a stern note but the corners of his mouth twitched, giving him away.

“I said, guv’nor,” Jem said with exaggerated enunciation, “I deeply regret appearing like a street rat before your lordship’s eyes and it will not happen again.”

“Thank you, Jem.”

 

When the Earl followed Lady Harcourt into her sitting room a little while later, he was met by a whirlwind of some six years who shot up from where he had been sitting by the fireplace with a tall female who now rose and followed him to greet the Earl. Young Master Frederick was a robust little boy with a shock of ginger hair, and he ran across the room to haul himself into his godfather’s arms, shrieking “Uncle ‘croft, Uncle ‘croft” at the top of his lungs. Mycroft knelt down immediately to catch him, laughing as he did so.

“Will you stop howling like a demon, you horrible little brat?” he mock-chided him, pulling at one of the unruly locks. “Thanks to you I will be spending the rest of my day mostly deaf.”

He stood and hoisted his godson up.

“Your mother tells me you are ready to move from your pony to a real horse. Is that right?”

Frederick nodded eagerly, his bright blue eyes sparkling. “Grandpa said I have excellent bottom and when we see him again in summer, he will have a real horse for me.” He furrowed his brow in a comical imitation of a grown-up’s frown and Mycroft had to stifle a laugh. “But Uncle ‘croft, when is it summer?”

“Summer will not be here for another couple of months, I’m afraid. Now don’t look so disappointed, Freddy,” he said when he saw the stricken look on the boy’s face. “I have something to show you.”

He walked to the window and pointed outside where Jem was walking his team.

“These are my new bays. Would you like to meet them?”

Frederick’s eyes lit up at once.

“Can I sit on one?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I tell you what,” he said, putting Frederick down. “If your mother allows, I will drive you up and down the street with them.” He looked at Anthea. “What do you say, Lady Harcourt? Will you trust me with your son for a few minutes?”

Anthea cocked her head as if to weigh his suggestion, looking at her son who stood stockstill next to his godfather, obviously torn between the urge to fling himself at her as he had done with Mycroft and trying very hard to appear the obedient little boy who would be deemed worthy of being shown the Earl’s team of bays. The moment he recognised the permission in his mother’s eyes, however, he threw himself against her legs.

“Very well,” she said, bending down to remove her enthusiastic son from her driving habit. “But only three turns, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” the Earl and his godson said in unison which made her laugh.

“Off you go then, Freddy,” she told her son, then turned to the other woman who had watched the scene with a smile in her eyes. “Phoebe, might I trouble you with the task of finding Nurse to help dress Freddy for the ride?”

“I will dress him myself,” her cousin replied. “I believe Nurse has busied herself with needlework.”

“What has my horrid godson done now? Shredded another set of clothes?” Mycroft asked, bowing to her. “How do you do, Ms Saunders. I apologise for my shocking lack of manners but as you have seen, young Master Frederick here has demanded all attention for himself.” He ruffled the culprit’s hair. “Allow me to compliment you on the work you have done on Lady Harcourt’s hat. I am sure she will receive many enquiries as to where she has purchased something quite so elegant.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Ms Saunders said in her soft voice. “It is very kind of you to notice.”

She glanced down to where Frederick was all but bouncing on his feet, clearly eager to see the horses and growing impatient about standing around to wait for the grown-ups to finish exchanging pleasantries.

“Let’s get you dressed for a ride with Lord Halsbury, Freddy, yes?”

“Yes, Cousin Phoebe!”

He took the offered hand and bounced out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “Can I hold the reins, Uncle ‘croft?”

“We’ll see,” Mycroft called back. When Ms Saunders and Master Frederick had disappeared, he turned to Anthea. “He is turning into quite a handful, is he not?”

“He is not always like that,” she replied. “There are times he likes to sit still and look at pictures in books, not uttering a sound.”

“Are you sure Freddy is the only son you have?”

“Quite sure. But the prospect of seeing his favourite uncle always gets him excited.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft said in mock-alarm. “Maybe I should just stay away.”

“Don’t,” she said, suddenly earnest. “He loves you so. His Uncle ‘croft is the closest thing he has to a –” Her voice broke and she turned her head away.

With a few strides he came up to her and took one of her hands.

“Don’t cry, Anthea,” he begged. “I was only joking. I would never, ever stay away from him. He’s growing to look so much like his father and having him around takes some of the pain away.” He raised his other hand and lightly stroked her cheek. “Don’t cry,” he said again. “I promise I will not leave him. He’s the closest thing I will ever have to a son of my own.”

“You would be a wonderful father, Mycroft,” she said in a voice that was not quite steady and touched his hand where on the third finger he wore a simple gold band. “Andrew always said so, and that’s why he wanted you to be Freddy’s godfather.” Her fingers closed around his. “Seeing you with him makes me wonder…” She broke off and looked down. When she raised her eyes to his face, there was an expression in them he found himself unable to fathom and it made him hold his breath.

“Maybe your godson is not the only child you will ever have,” she said softly.

Mycroft blinked.

“Anthea, dare I assume you have considered my offer?”

She laughed, a little shakily.

“I have, Mycroft, and my answer is yes.”

Their fingers were still entwined. He lifted her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Thank you, Anthea, thank you.” It was his voice now that trembled. “I will be a good husband to you and a good father to little Frederick.”

“I know you will be.” She kissed his knuckles in return. “And I will be a good wife, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He placed a finger under her chin and she lifted her face without any urge, her blue eyes meeting his without a trace of a doubt in them. After a moment’s hesitation, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her mouth, caressing it more than kissing it. His tongue traced the soft fullness of her lips and as they parted invitingly, he let it dip inside to touch hers. It felt… surprisingly pleasant and as his arms encircled her, her curves moulded to the contours of his body. He found that pleasant, too, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something akin to hope stir inside of him.

When he heard voices coming from the staircase, he pulled away from her, amazed at the reluctance with which he did so.

“I will make you happy,” he promised. “You will not regret this.”

“How about you, Mycroft? Will you be happy?”

The door was flung open, releasing him of the obligation to answer her question. As he let himself be pulled outside by his impatient godson, however, he felt happier than he had ever dared hope for.

 

 


	6. His Lordship lashes out and the detective picks up the pieces

 

The Viscount stormed into the Earl’s study without waiting to be announced, as was his custom. The Earl, who had up to that moment been enjoying a light second breakfast while going through his correspondence, took one look at his brother’s face, lowered the piece of toast he had been nibbling on and dabbed the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Pray tell me this is a hoax.”

“I have not the slightest notion what you are talking about but I am certain you are quite ready to share it with me,” he said with maddening calm.

Sherlock took one deep breath, visibly struggling to compose himself, and fixed his brother with a look of utter disgust.

“I hear that congratulations are in order.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles.

“If you are referring to my betrothal to the Viscountess Harcourt, you are correct. Amazing how quickly you hear about things that have barely been agreed on.”

“Mycroft!” The Viscount’s rich voice thundered and Mycroft winced theatrically.

“Temper, temper,” he drawled. “The servants are well aware of my given name. No need to shout it.” He indicated towards the door. “Close it, will you.”

Sherlock did as he was told, and he did so with unnecessary force. He flung his beaver hat on one of the chairs but left his coat on.

“Have you gone mad?” he demanded to know. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“I see nothing unusual at all in the matter and it is quite beyond me why you would fly up into the boughs over it. You are perfectly well aware of the friendship between the Viscountess and me.”

“Yes, yes, she’s Andrew’s widow and you are godfather to their child. Hardly a reason to become leg-shackled to her.”

“Ah, but shackles make such an ugly comparison. I prefer to call it a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Sherlock snorted. “I fail to see the benefit in that.”

“And I fail to see why I should have to explain myself to you.”

“She’s a _woman_ , Mycroft.”

“So I have noticed.”

“You have no interest in women! It’s _men_ you like!” Sherlock’s voice had risen in volume again and Mycroft felt his patience snap. He slammed his hand on the table, making the cups and plates rattle. Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Will you yell any louder,” Mycroft hissed. “How dare you challenge me in my own house? Have you lost all sense of propriety?”

“Oh yes, propriety –” Sherlock started but Mycroft cut him short by standing abruptly.

“Yes, propriety indeed! There are subjects that are not to be discussed while there is even the slightest chance of an unwanted pair of ears nearby and you would do well to remember it!” He straightened to his full height. “Lady Harcourt and I have grown very fond of each other and a mutual feeling of respect and friendship is not the worst thing to base a marriage on. Unlike you, brother dear, I have our family’s name to consider. Our father’s title comes with a price, and being the first son is less of a privilege than you might think.”

“Respect and friendship,” Sherlock repeated, disdain dripping from his voice.  

“Yes, Sherlock, respect and friendship.”

“What else does your misguided sense of filial duty entail? Produce an heir?”

“Oh, please do share your valuable opinion on filial duties with me, will you?” The Earl walked around the table until he came to stand within arm’s length of his brother. “Correct me if I’m wrong but I seem to remember that your interpretation of a good son included neglecting your studies, turning your back on a promising career that was yours to grasp, running off to risk your neck in reckless horseraces, becoming a regular patron in some of the worst opium dens and above all, you have kept our mother in a constant state of worry about your well-being ever since our father was found with a bullet in his head! So yes, brother dear, please do lecture me on misguided filial duties to your heart’s content!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly tired, and, walking towards the window that opened to the garden, continued in a calmer fashion.

“I had a life in Lisbon, Sherlock, and my career was going just as I had hoped it would. I had… there was… someone. But then our father saw it fit to take his own life rather than live up to the consequences of the decisions he had taken. It wasn’t only your world that was shattered that day, you see, and you will forgive me if I try to pick up the pieces of mine and put them together in such a fashion that will allow me to go on with what little dignity has been left to our name.”

He turned to face his brother again.

“Is it really so hard to understand?”

Sherlock had turned very pale and Mycroft reached out to him, suddenly ashamed of his outburst.

“I apologise, Sherlock, that was uncalled for. I did not mean to –”

He was cut off by an abrupt gesture.

“I understand perfectly well, my lord,” Sherlock said in a cold voice. “Thank you for making me understand I am our father’s son, and thank you for putting me back in my place. I apologise for bringing my concerns to your attention and I assure you I shall not trouble you again. You as eldest son and head of the family know what is right and proper without the younger brother blathering on about insignificant things.” He reached for his beaver hat. “With your permission, I shall take my leave. I’m sure you have things to take care of.”

Without waiting for a reply, he opened the door and stalked out, head held high and spine ramrod straight.

Mycroft sank down on his chair and buried his face in his hands. When had the relationship with his brother taken such a dramatic turn? Was this how it was going to be from now on? Ending up quarrelling whenever they met?

But worst of all: there was some truth in what Sherlock had said, and it stung. It stung rather dreadfully.

******

“Look for a green ladder.”

“What?” Lestrade looked up from the analysis Anderson had provided him with. “Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Holmes.”

“Green ladder,” Holmes repeated impatiently. “Go back to the Downing’s house and look for a green ladder. Better yet, let me do it.”

“What does a green ladder have to do with anything?” He looked Holmes up and down. “Good God, lad, what is the matter with you? You look as though somebody has poisoned your dog. What happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, detective, but thank you for your concern.”

“Please, sit.”

“I can’t stay long and I’d rather stand. I left my curricle waiting and I do not wish my horses to cool down,” Holmes said in reply to the question in Lestrade’s eyes. “When I examined the gravel I noticed traces of green paint in two specific patches, about this much apart,” he indicated a distance of roughly forty inches, “and when I looked at the samples I had taken, I found my theory confirmed. Green paint. A ladder. A green ladder. But why would anyone want to put a ladder in this particular spot? There are no windows in the wall. Besides, if you wished to put a ladder against the wall, you would put it in the flower bed, not the path. Too far away from wall, not a good angle.”

“I don’t understand what all this has to do with the demise of Mr Downing.”

Holmes sighed. “Lestrade.”

“Yes, Holmes?”

An involuntary grin flickered across the young man’s face. “Very well. Where to start so you can follow?”

“How about at the beginning?”

Holmes sighed again, more theatrically this time. “Downing was a superstitious man. His widow confirmed as much. It is therefore safe to assume that he would by no means walk under a ladder but around it.”

“Yes, but –” Lestrade started but Holmes held up a hand, silencing him.

“He received a bottle of whiskey, an unusual gift because he wasn’t partial to drinking anything stronger than the occasional glass of sherry. However, we found the bottle to be half empty. I therefore assume – although I much dislike sharing assumptions that have no sound foundation – that for whatever reason Mr Downing chose to go against his habit, drank the whiskey and went outside to clear his head. Ladder was in the way, he walked around it, slipped and fell. Noticed the flower pots? Examined them, too, found remains of a rusty-reddish colouring. Might very well have been blood.”

“Hm.” Lestrade tapped a finger to his nose. “But why slip and fall? There’s no bumps or slopes in that path.”

Holmes shrugged. “It is still very cold at night. It is quite possible there were frozen patches on path and lawn. If you give me the exact date of Downing’s death, I will check the weather records of that day.”

“You keep weather records?”

“I do not. But I know somebody who does.”

“I see. Well, let me have a look.” Lestrade rummaged through the papers piled up on his shabby desk and pulled one file out with a triumphant exclamation. “There it is.” He leafed through the single sheets. “Says here,” he squinted, “twenty-sixth of February.”

“Hm,” Holmes huffed. “The mills of the law are slow indeed. I will consult my associate on this.”

“You do have quite a number of associates, don’t you?”

“What?”

“One who has access to scientific instruments, another who keeps weather records? I wonder what other cards you have hidden up that expensive sleeve of yours.”

“Oh, there’s another two or three,” Holmes said with one of his lopsided grins. “Do I have your permission to enquire about the green ladder?”

“Wha – oh yes, the green ladder.” Lestrade sighed. “I wish I could go with you but I have been set on another case this morning. Here, take my card,” he reached inside the pocket of his coat and handed one of his cards to Holmes who accepted it with raised eyebrows. “In case Mrs Downing’s hired servants have decided to wipe your name from their memories. An official Bow Street card might help them remember. Off you go now, lad, and let me know what you find out.”

“I will. Good luck with that new case.”

Lestrade nodded and picked up the report he had been reading. “Not much luck needed here. It’s not going to take long. Crystal clear, that one. Yes Holmes, even to me,” he added, a little sharper than intended. “I am quite able putting two and two together on my own. And aren’t those horses of yours cooling down?”

“I will send you my findings tomorrow, detective.”

“Thank you, Holmes.”

He followed Holmes with his eyes until he vanished out of sight, wondering – not for the first time – what was going on in the young man’s mind. Why would a nobleman derive such satisfaction from doing lowly police work? Surely there were other and more socially acceptable things to occupy that mercurial mind, things that would not raise aristocratic eyebrows. And what on earth had shaken him so? Holmes had been white as a sheet and rigid with barely suppressed fury when he had come to stand before Lestrade’s desk, and only the prospect of looking into that odd green ladder business had calmed him down.

Shaking his head, he directed his attention once more to the coroner’s analysis. Although he hadn’t lied when he had said the case was as good as solved, it never hurt to study all facts at hand.

 

It was well after midnight when he finally reached his house, tired from his nightly round but pleased with himself for having been right and having put two and two together correctly. It never paid to underestimate the weaker sex, and the case of the shoemaker who had raised his hand against his wife and children one time too many had proven him right. However, there now were the couple’s children to worry about whose future was uncertain with their father dead and their mother facing the gallows, but Constable Marsh, an able young policeman with his heart in the right place, had hinted at a possible alternative to the orphanage and with a little luck the little ones would be taken care of.

A groan came from the direction of his door and he stopped dead in his tracks, raising his lantern. The flickering candlelight outlined the shape of a man huddled against the wall and with a sinking heart Lestrade recognised his nightly visitor. With a few long strides he walked up to the man and crouched down next to him.

“Good God, Holmes!” He held the light up so he could peer into the young man’s face. “What happened this time?”

Holmes blinked and shielded his eyes as if blinded by a beacon.

“Lestrade,” he murmured. “You’re home.”

“Yes I am,” Lestrade replied. “What on earth –” He interrupted himself, seeing the futility of trying to get a reasonable answer. Instead, he put his lantern on the small bench on the other side of the door and slung one of Holmes’ arms around his neck, trying to get him to stand up. When his efforts failed, he heaved him across his shoulder like a sack of flour, groaning as he did so. Holmes was a tall but slender young man but in this condition he seemed to weigh as much as a healthy ox and Lestrade staggered under his weight.

He got him inside with considerable effort and sat him carefully on his bed.

“Holmes.” He patted Holmes’ cheek, then shook him by the shoulder. “Holmes, will you let me get you out of your coat?”

An incoherent mumble was the answer to that and Lestrade chose to take it as permission granted. He struggled to get Holmes’ arms out of the sleeves and, laying him down on the mattress, pulled the coat away from under him and knelt down to take the young man’s boots off. When he had him stretched out on the bed, he removed the necktie, too, then got up to close the door.

“Don’t go,” came a voice from the corner where his bed stood. There was such loneliness in the two words that Lestrade froze. He turned around, very slowly, to look at Holmes who was struggling to get into a sitting position but barely managed to stay balanced on his elbows. “Don’t go,” he said again. “Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Just let me close the door and start a fire, will you. Otherwise we’ll freeze to death.”

Holmes mumbled something and sank down again.

Lestrade took the lantern inside and placed it on the table, then closed the door and knelt down before the fireplace to get a small fire going. When the flames started dancing across the neat stack of wood, making the twigs crack, he finally removed his own coat and boots and on stockinged feet made his way across the room to look at his unexpected visitor who now lay curled up on his side like a little boy, and although this particular little boy reeked of strong liquor, Lestrade couldn’t find it in him to be angry. Instead, he bent down to pull the blanket up to Holmes’ shoulders and gently brushed some unruly curls out of his face.

With a sigh he straightened, not looking forward to a night spent in his worn out armchair. His back would not thank him for that, that much was certain.

“Stay,” Holmes said in that voice that sounded nothing like the haughty young man Lestrade had grown accustomed to, and nothing like the opium-drugged ne’er-do-well either.

“Let me get my chair, lad, and I will stay by your side.”

“Mhm.”

When he had pushed his armchair across the floor so it came to stand next to the bed, he fetched his coat and a woollen blanket so he would not get cold and sat down.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Sherlock?” he asked, directing the question at himself rather than Holmes, not expecting a reply. Next to him, Holmes stirred and blinked sleepily at him.

“Because nobody cares about me. Doesn’t matter whether I live or die.”

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade turned to face Holmes. “Of course it matters. It matters to me.”

“You’re my only friend. My brother doesn’t care.”

“I’m sure he does. He’s your brother.”

“He’s too high and mighty. And he’s getting married.”

“That won’t stop him from loving you.”

Holmes attempted a snort but it came out a snuffle. “Mycroft doesn’t love anyone. He’s too busy being proper and all.”

Lestrade started when he felt Holmes’ hand reach for his. It was cold as ice and Lestrade automatically closed his hand around it in an attempt to give warmth.

“You know,” Holmes’ voice sank to a tired whisper, making it hard for Lestrade to follow him, “my brother hates me. He thinks I’m worthless and too much like our father and I bring nothing but trouble. And so he’s going to marry that woman but it isn’t right, you know,” another snuffle, “because Mycroft doesn’t like women. He likes men and he will be so unhappy when he marries. But he’s the first-born and he has duties and I’m only the younger…” his voice died to an incomprehensible mumble and the deepening of his breath told Lestrade he had drifted off into sleep. He tried to free his hand but Holmes held on, linking his long fingers with Lestrade’s. Lestrade shook his head but, resigning to his fate of having to hold hands with a drunken Viscount, pulled woollen blanket and coat over himself and tried to find a comfortable position.

He didn’t fall asleep for a quite a while, his thoughts revolving around Holmes’ mysterious brother. What kind of a brute would make such a bright young man feel worthless and a burden? How cold-hearted did a man have to be to cast his younger brother out, not caring whether he lived or died? And what about that careless remark about the Earl preferring his own sex? Was Holmes even aware of the scandal such an accusation could bring? The rumour alone had frayed others beyond repair.

A soft snore made him look at the sleeping Viscount and he smiled despite all. Holmes was safe in the arms of Dionysus, sleeping a drunken man’s slumber, and Lestrade doubted he would remember anything he had said when he woke.

His own dreams, however, where haunted by images of a stern, faceless figure casting his crying brother out into the streets of London. Only, when Lestrade opened his arms to catch him, it was not one sobbing little boy who flung himself at him but two. One had Holmes’ everchanging eyes. The other’s eyes were of a dark brown, just like his own.

He woke with a start, eyes stinging with tears and his heart thundering madly. He gently freed his hand from Holmes’ grip, pulled the blanket tightly around himself and silently walked across the fireplace to stir the flames back to life.

Lestrade fell asleep again on the rug before the fire, wrapped in his blanket, the dark-eyed boy’s sobs still in his ears.

 


	7. A chance encounter

Two weeks passed and Mycroft neither saw his brother nor heard from him. He was used to Sherlock disappearing for a few days but sooner or later received word of his younger sibling – either delivered in person or through something that had happened around him. The tidings usually were of an exhausting nature; a ridiculous win and an even bigger loss at Watier’s, a reckless horse race or, more often than not, an outraged gentleman paid the Earl a visit to inform him that his insolent younger brother had mortally insulted either him, his offspring, his wife or his tailor. Mycroft listened, made the appropriate remarks and did his best to calm the waves and smooth ruffled feathers while suppressing the desperate need to box his brother’s ears.

This time, however, was different but his discreet enquiries merely resulted in the knowledge that his lordship was rising at his usual hour, was taking his usual light breakfast, left the house and did not return until late at night. Nothing out of the ordinary and yet, his brother worried. Their latest quarrel must have hurt the Viscount more deeply than he had let on and Mycroft regretted his unfiltered words for while Sherlock himself favoured a blunt approach – to say the least –, he was wounded easier than his haughty manner would lead others to believe. Mycroft of all people knew of his brother’s vulnerable side and he of all people should guard his tongue around him. Their father’s death had come as a shock to both of them but the Viscount had been barely nineteen then, no schoolboy anymore but not quite a man yet. It had shaken him to the core and it had taken a lot of persuasion and sweet-talking to get him to return to Oxford to continue his studies.

The Earl let his horse slow down to a walk as he was approaching a more populated area of Hyde Park. Not many members of the _ton_ were seen yet as this time of day was for receiving morning callers; parading Rotten Row was still a few hours ahead and besides, this part of the park was not considered fashionable with its narrow roads and rustic lamps. It was, however, perfectly suited for an early afternoon ride and that was why the Earl had chosen it.

To his left, two riders were approaching and he politely nodded to the younger of the two, a nervous youth sitting uncomfortably on a flaxen chestnut.

“Wellbie,” he greeted him and the recipient bowed stiffly and with a forced smile. It was not meant to be impolite and the Earl didn’t take offense. Lord Fidlow’s youngest son was not a natural horseman and was rarely seen riding in public. Everything and everybody taking his attention off the terrifying task of staying in the saddle was met with the utmost reluctance.

“My lord,” Wellbie replied politely enough. “How do you do? Lovely day for a ride, isn’t it.”

“Indeed. That’s a beautiful stepper you have there.”

“Thank you. She’s sweet enough.”

“A very lovely lady. You will draw many jealous glances when you take her for a ride later this afternoon.”

The young man visibly relaxed and beamed at the Earl.

“You think so, sir?”

“I am certain of it. But please, Wellbie, don’t let me delay you.”

“Thank you, sir. Good day.”

“Good day.”

The two men rode off at an easy trot and the Earl followed them with his eyes. His attention, however, was not on the nervous young nobleman but rather on his companion whose cream-coloured mount was every bit as temperamental and impatient as Wellbie’s was gentle, appearing highly strung and barely saddle-broken but was masterfully handled by her rider. At first glance, the Earl had taken the man to be Wellbie’s groom but his manners were not those of a servant although he had kept a respectful enough distance. In addition, he had met the Earl’s eyes with a frank look of his own, appraising even, and while his coat had undoubtedly seen better days it was far from shabby, reasonably well cut and of decent quality, and his boots had been polished to shine. There had been something oddly familiar about him, too, but try as he might, the Earl couldn’t place him and so he looked after him for a little while longer, committing the details to his memory and counting on his unerring memory to come up with a match sooner or later.

With an amused shake of his head he turned his horse around and, making sure the path was free, nudged him first into an easy canter and then into an unfashionable, but highly enjoyable, gallop.

 

When they reached Rotten Row, Wellbie slowed his horse down to a step with visible relief.

“That wasn’t altogether bad, was it?” he asked hopefully, turning to his riding partner who kept his prancing mount under control with sure hands and strong legs.

“Not bad at all, Mr Wellbie,” Lestrade said. “In fact, you have made remarkable progress. Only two weeks ago you would never have considered trotting while anybody was still in sight. Very well done indeed!”

“And in front of him, too!” Wellbie looked pleased with himself. “If I had made a fool of myself in front of him, I would never hear the end of it.”

“Oh? Is he that frightening?”

“No,” Wellbie began but interrupted himself with a rueful grin. “Yes, he is. He is never actually unpleasant but he has this way of staring at you along that long nose of his. Add his abominable quizzing glass and you’ll feel like a six year-old.” He winced, realising the indiscretion he had just committed. “Dash it, that was a horrible thing to say. Promise you’ll never repeat it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I am afraid I missed what you just said,” Lestrade said with a perfectly straight face. “This young lady here seems determined to win the title of prettiest prancer in town. You were saying?”

“Thank you, Mr Lestrade.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. Dare I enquire about the intimidating gentleman’s name?”

“Oh, he’s Halsbury. I mean, the Earl of Halsbury. Only rides prime bits of blood. First-rate fiddler, too. Member of the FHC and the only one I’ve ever seen drive pickaxe. ”

Lestrade noticed he was gaping and quickly closed his mouth. So that was Holmes’ brother? He turned to look in the direction they had come from, trying to fit the image of the unforgiving tyrant he had created in his mind to the elegant man he had just met, and failed. The Earl was long gone, but not so the memory of an amused glint in a pair of cool eyes and of the easy grace with which he had sat on that powerful grey. Halsbury was younger than he had thought, too, maybe about five-and-thirty.

“…not sure if one could call him a Corinthian,” Wellbie was saying and Lestrade quickly redirected his attention to the young man.

“And why not?”

“Not really a Tulip of Fashion, see. Dresses well enough but I hear most of his coats are cut in such a fashion that he can put them on himself, without his valet.”

“You don’t say,” uttered Lestrade in mock astonishment and Wellbie nodded, missing the twinkle in the older man’s eyes.

“Indeed it is so. Not the thing at all. Doesn’t box, either. Pistols? Bang up to the mark, that’s for sure. Heard his walking cane is a concealed swordstick but that’s probably just a hum. But with horses and driving, he’s a Nonesuch. No doubt about that. First rate even among the FHC members, my father says.”

“He has dealings with your father?” Lestrade asked, hoping he didn’t come across nosy but couldn’t help himself. From what he had heard, Lord Fidlow had once been an influential player in diplomatic circles until unpleasant rumours concerning his brother had forced him to retire. Said rumours had long proved to be unfounded and pure slander, however, Fidlow remained retired and kept an observing distance. Not quite the company Lestrade would have associated Holmes’ brother with.

“Well, yes and no. They’re both members at White’s and they meet at Manton’s every other week to shoot at paper wafers. No idea what they’re talking about, never bothered to find out. Politics, I’d wager. Dull stuff, if you ask me.”

“Mhm,” hummed Lestrade, hoping to hear more.

“He’s not always been the stuffy dog that he is now,” Wellbie chatted on, oblivious to the fact that he was still on horseback. “Used to be with the 11th Hussars and when he was younger he was a regular out and outer. He snuffed fifteen candles with one shot and his record still stands. I wouldn’t know because I was still a boy back then but my brother’s told me about it once. They’re still talking about it and Percy says nobody’s managed to beat him.”

“Fifteen candles, huh.”

“Or was it sixteen? Can’t remember. Doesn’t signify. Not likely to repeat any of it, being Earl and all. His brother, on the other hand, oh, I hear he’s a wild one. I wonder if he spars at Jackson’s. Wouldn’t be surprised if he did. Devilish good card player and a breakneck horseman. Rotten driver, Percy says, but on horseback? As good as the Earl, if not better. No,” he corrected himself, “not better, not really. More reckless, yes, that’s it. That’s what Percy said, too.”

His seemingly endless flow of interesting gossip came to an abrupt end when his horse took an instant dislike to a discarded piece of paper fluttering across their path and started prancing sideways. Lestrade, recognising the look of panic that crept into his protégé’s eyes, reached over and grabbed the chestnut’s bridles. The horse calmed down at once but her rider did not. Wellbie ended his early afternoon ride in the same state of nervousness he had set out with and asked to be dropped off at his family’s townhouse, leaving his horse to his groom, a sinewy and cheerful individual who accompanied Lestrade to Lord Fidlow’s stables, chatting amicably with his master’s riding instructor.

“He’s making good progress, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Lestrade confirmed but answered all other questions regarding Wellbie’s horsemanship in an evasive manner, not willing to betray the young man’s trust although he had been approached by the very groom he was now talking to. Still, being sent out by one’s master to make discreet enquiries about riding lessons did not entail discussing the matter with the hired instructor, and Lestrade took matters of confidence very seriously. Being an unwilling rider was one thing, but being mortally afraid of horses would make any young man a laughing stock amongst his peers. Servants knew each other and who knew who was on gossiping terms.

However, Wellbie had indeed made very good progress since their first meeting and Lestrade was proud of him. That much he told the groom and further satisfied the man’s curiosity by telling him how well Wellbie had managed today’s trot. The brief panic attack was left out, as was the equally brief encounter with the mysterious Earl of Halsbury.

“He will soon be able to join the others,” he said with a smile. “Although it would be helpful if you chose your most gentle creature for his first public ride. Lady Chestnut here was all charms and sweetness until something made her show a bit of nerves towards the end. Nothing happened, Stanley,” he added quickly when the groom frowned, “but it would be a shame ruining Mr Wellbie’s first appearance on horseback.”

Stanley nodded earnestly.

“I’ll see to it myself, Mr Lestrade. If I may say so it gladdens my heart to see the young master on horseback again. When he was little he wouldn’t be parted from his pony but ever since that dreadful accident he could hardly bear standing even close to one. Thank goodness his lordship met that military doctor in Bath.”

“What military doctor?”

“I couldn’t say, not having met him in person. I merely overheard a conversation between his lordship and her ladyship as I was tending to the young master’s carriage horses. Seems the good doctor has some outlandish ideas about horse riding being good for lads being frightened after something dreadful happened to them.”

“Oh yes?” Lestrade was intrigued. “Do you happen to know his name, and do you know if he has published anything that I could read?”

“Again, I couldn’t say. I could try and find out for you if you are that interested.” Stanley frowned. “I think the man’s name is Wilson. Or was it Watson? Yes, I think he went by the name of Watson. I will ask the kitchen maid.”

“And you think the kitchen maid will know the answer?”

“Oh no,” chuckled Stanley, “but her ladyship’s maid will. They’re cousins, the kitchen maid and her ladyship’s maid, and the kitchen maid and I are friendly. Lovely little thing, Ruthie is.”

“Enough, enough,” Lestrade held up a hand with a grin. “Spare me the details. But yes, if you could find out the doctor’s name I would be indeed grateful for I have made similar observations and it would be most interesting to find out what a learned man has to say about that.”

They had reached the stables and dismounted. Lestrade handed his horse over to the stable boy who had run out to meet them, but fed her an apple first.

“Hope to see you again soon, my lovely lady,” he murmured, stroking the mare’s nose.

Stanley, who had watched him, shook his head. “Should you ever get tired of policing, Mr Lestrade, you should apply for a position in his lordship’s household. Someone like you would be most welcome.”

Lestrade laughed. “Thank you, Stanley. Coming from you, this is a compliment indeed but I am quite content with my life as it is right now. Send word to me when Master Wellbie is ready for another ride.”

“I will.”

The two men shook hands but as Lestrade turned to go, Stanley called after him.

“Wait! I’ve something to give you,” he said and threw Lestrade a small purse. “His lordship’s valet handed this to me when Mr Wellbie returned, saying his lordship was pleased to see his son return on horseback.”

“Thank you.” The purse had a comfortable weight but Lestrade didn’t open it before the groom and the stable boys. “My most humble thanks to his lordship and it is my pleasure.”

When he was out of sight, he risked a glance and softly whistled. Lord Fidlow had not only paid last month’s fees but had added some extra coins and a brief handwritten note, expressing the heartfelt thanks of a concerned father and the sincere hope that Lestrade would stay by his son’s side until Wellbie felt comfortable enough to ride out on his own. Lestrade folded the piece of paper and put it safely into his pocket, smiling as he did so. He had met the former diplomat only once and had been pleasantly surprised at the man’s genuine interest not only in his person but in the well-being of his youngest son. Quite different from what he had expected, his usual encounters with members of the _ton_ often being of the more unpleasant kind – breaking up fights between young gentlemen having dipped too deep, searching houses of dubious reputation and turning a blind eye to an aristocrat hastily fumbling for his breeches, investigating a nobleman’s involvement in this or that unspeakable affair. He was used to being treated like one would treat vermin but Lord Fidlow had treated him with respect and interest.

His thoughts wandered to Holmes who was an unusual representative of the aristocracy, too, and from him to his brother. He would have to find out a bit more about the mysterious Earl of Halsbury who had looked nothing like the ogre Holmes had painted him to be but Lestrade had learnt a long time ago that looks could be deceiving. Still, the easy grace with which the Earl had handled the splendid grey – a rather unusual shade of steel grey, Lestrade remembered – had impressed him and he had been further intrigued by Wellbie’s remarks about Halsbury moving in diplomatic circles and being a marksman and a remarkable whip, the memory of the latter still somewhat fresh in his mind.

Now, however, was not the time to ponder over either of the brothers. He checked his pocket watch and nodded to himself. There was still enough time to visit the bank before his shift began and, not wanting to waste money on a hackney, he walked to the Bank of England at a brisk pace. There he was greeted by a serious young clerk who handled those of the bank’s clients who had to earn their living. Lestrade’s account was among the most modest ones but he stubbornly refused to transfer it to one of the smaller banks.

“I wish to make a transfer,” he said after a brief exchange of how do you do’s and the usual polite phrases.

“Very well,” the clerk said, reaching for pen and paper. “Where may I direct it, and what is the amount?”

“Ten pounds,” Lestrade replied in a firm voice. He had intended it to be less but the sum he had received today allowed him to be generous and so, knowing the money would be well received and most welcome, he dictated the address of the receiving bank to the young man who filled out the necessary paperwork.

Afterwards he went to post a letter to an address in Weymouth – the same address he had sent the money to – and, checking the time once more, hailed a hackney to take him to his house, needing to change from his riding clothes into the more practical and robust policing gear.

He arrived at the police station just in time and set out on his usual round with Constable Marsh who reported good news about the shoemaker’s children.

“No orphanage for the little ones,” the young policeman said, “and no work-house either. The vicar’s taken them in, just as I hoped. He’s a good man and his wife is a very warm-hearted woman. They have lost three of their children to diphtheria and they are more than happy to take the little ones in.”

“I am happy to hear it,” Lestrade said, stepping outside. “Well done, Marsh. Now, let’s see what tonight brings.”

The night didn’t bring anything more demanding than the usual fisticuffs amongst young men which was fortunate for Lestrade whose mind was elsewhere engaged, lingering on a pair of amused eyes and some very long legs.

******

“I saw young Wellbie this afternoon,” the Earl casually remarked to Mr Stapleton, lifting his glass and inspecting the claret’s rich red colour. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that close to Rotten Row before. Not on horseback, at least.”

Stapleton looked up from his brandy. “You did? So it’s true what I heard.”

“And what might that be?”

“Lad’s been taking riding lessons. Fidlow mentioned it once when he was in his cups but I thought he was joking. Apparently wasn’t.”

“Isn’t he a bit old for riding lessons?”

“Some fancy medical experiment, I reckon.” Stapleton took a generous swig and closed his eyes in bliss when the rich liquid ran down his throat. “Ah, that’s good stuff indeed,” he sighed, satisfied. “Not sure where it’s from and not sure I want to know but it’s good.” He emptied the glass and signalled for it to be refilled.

“Medical experiment?” Halsbury asked, hoping to steer the other man into the direction where he hoped to find an answer to the question that had been nagging at him all afternoon.

“Something about facing your fears by directly confronting them or something of the kind,” replied Stapleton with a vague gesture of his hand. Before he could continue, however, a sneering voice was heard from behind.

“Wellbie, pah. Little ninny ought to be sent home to Fidlow’s country estate to be tended by his nurse. Afraid of horses, really, who has ever heard of that.”

The Earl turned around to see who had dared interrupt his conversation. A young man who looked to be no older than three-and-twenty had stopped on his way to the card table upon hearing Wellbie’s name mentioned and, sporting a misguided notion about the importance of athletic endeavours in a gentleman’s life, had seen it fit to comment on an unlucky member of the male sex who seemingly failed to meet society’s expectations. He nodded to one of his entourage, grinning, and extended a hand to the Earl.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, your lordship,” he drawled but whatever he wanted to say next was effectively quenched by an arrogantly raised eyebrow.

“I assume this is supposed to be a Mathematical, yes?” Halsbury said, bored, and the aspiring young dandy blanched when he found himself inspected through the dreaded quizzing glass which hovered unpleasantly close to the neckcloth he had spent nearly two hours on, trying to tame the starched material into the three precise creases said Mathematical required. The hateful eyebrow quirked up by another fraction. “And these are buttons? Interesting,” the Earl murmured, putting the quizzing glass away. “Allow me to suggest spending more thought on accuracy and colour coordination than on another man’s attempts at facing a challenge.”

With that, he turned to Stapleton. “Let us find another spot to continue our conversation. The company has sunken to a level I find frightfully dull. Have I ever told you I am contemplating founding my own club? Neither talking nor children would be allowed there.”

“Really?” Stapleton chuckled, linked arms with Halsbury and together they walked out of the room to find a quieter corner. “And what would you call that silent refuge of yours?”

“I have not thought about a name yet. Too great is the pleasure of imagining a place where there is no idle chatter.”

“Come now, Halsbury, will you not agree that we have been enjoying a pleasant little chat before this young mushroom showed up?”

“We have. I was just about to remark that Wellbie looked almost comfortable on that sweet-going horse of his.”

“Did he? That makes me very happy. It was such a dreadful, dreadful thing that happened to him and for a while we thought Fidlow would have to send him, you know, away.”

“Seems his riding instructor is worth his money.”

“From what I hear, he is. Though I have no idea where Fidlow found him or who he is. He’s got a French name, that I remember, but he’s no Frenchie. He’s no groom nor riding instructor. Former military, perhaps. Doesn’t matter. None of my business anyway. Got young Wellbie back into the saddle and that is what counts. Ah, look,” he exclaimed, “here’s a nice and quiet corner. They even have today’s newspapers laid out. Splendid.” He let go of Halsbury’s arm and sat down heavily in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. “Quiet enough for you?”

“It will do,” the Earl agreed and took the chair opposite Stapleton.

A servant appeared, offering refreshments and sandwiches. Stapleton happily accepted both but the Earl merely ordered another glass of claret and, crossing his long legs at the ankles, reached for one of the newspapers.

Focussing on what the paper had to say came harder than usual for the Earl’s thoughts kept returning to a pair of dark brown eyes and an impressive display of horsemanship.


	8. Mr Fitzwilliam returns to London

When the Earl arrived at Half Moon Street the next day to pay the Viscountess Harcourt a visit, he was informed that her ladyship was already entertaining a visitor. The butler, aware of the fact that his lordship was a close friend of the family, boldly suggested his lordship might take a seat in the library where he would find refreshments and the current newspaper at his disposal while he waited for her ladyship to receive him. The Earl, although tempted to accept, declined after a moment of consideration and was just about to hand his card over to her ladyship’s butler when a door was flung open and the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Master Frederick who had heard his favourite uncle’s voice.

“Uncle ‘croft, Uncle ‘croft!” Frederick shrieked and Mycroft handed his hat and walking cane over to the butler who permitted himself the luxury of a small smile at the sight of the elegant gentleman dropping to his knees to catch the impetuous young man.

“What have I told you about yelling at me, demon spawn?” Mycroft asked in a stern voice but the laughter in his eyes gave him away. His godson was not fooled for one moment, threw his arms around his uncle’s neck and whispered in the manner of someone sharing sensitive material, “If I howl like Benji it will give your ears a ring.”

“That is correct, demon, but the word is banshee. Not Benji. Benji is a name. A banshee is a howling creature.” He looked at Frederick and frowned, as in deep thought. “Maybe I should petition for the banshee to be officially renamed Freddy.”

Frederick giggled and Mycroft, gently but decidedly removing Frederick’s arms from around his neck, rose from his crouch.

“Please let go of me, you are ruining my neckcloth. No, don’t you look at me like that, Frederick, I will not carry you around while you cling to me like a little monkey. I wanted to pay your mother a visit but seeing she already has a visitor, it would not be polite to linger.”

“But you can visit with me, Uncle ‘croft,” Frederick pointed out in a practical manner. “You already gave Hanson your hat and stick. If you ask him nicely, he will take your coat, too, and I can show you the book Aunt Phoebe reads with me.”

Mycroft chose this unfortunate moment to look at the butler, a worthy individual in his fifties, who did not manage to get his features back under control quickly enough and was mortified about being found out smiling.

“Well, Hanson,” Mycroft said, pretending not to notice, “you heard Master Frederick. Will you be kind enough to take my overcoat so I may follow him to wherever his latest literary acquisition can be found?”

“Certainly, my lord,” the butler replied, the smile carefully wiped from his face but lingering in his eyes. “Should I inform her ladyship when she is free?”

“About my kidnapping?” Mycroft unbuttoned his caped overcoat, shrugged out of it unaided and handed it to the butler. “That would be much appreciated. Yes, Frederick,” he said, looking down at his impatient godson, “I’m coming. No need to pull my arm out.”

He followed Frederick into the nursery and, after bidding Nurse Grayson a good afternoon and exchanging the usual polite greetings, spent a good half hour leafing through Mr Newbery’s _Little Pretty Pocket-Book_ , encouraging Frederick to try and decipher new words by himself and telling him about his team of bays in return. They became so engrossed in their conversation that neither of them heard the door being opened.

“Look at the two of you,” Lady Harcourt said, amused. “And I was about to develop a bad conscience because I did not come out to greet you right away.”

“Mummy!” Frederick rushed to greet his mother, throwing himself at her with the enthusiasm of a boy whose mother had disappeared for six weeks and had only just returned. “Uncle ‘croft has taught me new words to read and Aunt Phoebe will be so pleased. And there’s a game in the book that’s called base-ball and it would be such fun to play in the summer when we’re with Grandpa because he has such a nice garden and –”

He stopped when Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder.

“Quiet, brat. Allow me to greet your mother before you talk both our ears off.” He smiled and bowed to Anthea. “Your servant, Lady Harcourt. Forgive me for not presenting myself to you in a more polite fashion but as you see, I was quite ruthlessly abducted.”

“In that case you will be relieved to hear I have come to rescue you. There is somebody I would like you to meet.”

“But Mummy,” her son protested. “You can’t take Uncle ‘croft away now. He was just telling me about his bays.”

“Will you let me go with your mother if I promise you to return and finish our conversation later?” Mycroft suggested upon seeing the disappointed look on Frederick’s face. “She just told me she would like me to meet someone and it would not do to keep a visitor waiting.”

“No, that would not be nice,” Frederick generously said after a moment of pouting. “You may go with Mummy, Uncle ‘croft.”

“Thank you,” his mother said with a smile. “Spoken like a true gentleman, Freddy. I will return your uncle shortly.”

She led the way to her drawing room, and when they were out of earshot, she chuckled.

“Careful, Mycroft. If you don’t watch out, he will soon have you dance to his every tune.”

“But he looked so disappointed.”

“I know,” she dryly said. “Like a starving orphan, yes?”

“Something of the kind,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you for the warning, Anthea, I will take it to heart.” He gave a low laugh. “Jem must never see Freddy pull this ace out of his sleeve. He himself has forever, and rather shamelessly so, been trying to apply this sort of emotional thumbscrew on me, too, and heaven forbid he should learn from Freddy how it is done.”

Anthea suppressed a giggle and, after checking if there was a servant in immediate vicinity who would witness an improper display of affection about to take place, Mycroft reached for her hand and lightly brushed a kiss to her wrist.

“May I ask whom you would like me to meet?”

“You’ll see.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went up at the mysterious announcement but before he could reply they reached the drawing room where a slender gentleman of medium height stood by the small pianoforte, studying the pencil sketches that adorned the wall above it. Upon hearing them enter the room, he turned around.

“Well, I must say, Anthea, these drawings of yours –,” he began but interrupted himself when he recognised the Earl. “Halsbury? Now here’s a pleasant surprise indeed. How do you do?”

“Fitzwilliam,” Mycroft responded, equally surprised. “How do you do? I had no idea you had returned to England.”

The two men shook hands.

“I returned a little over a week ago but decided to get used to my own house before I made an appearance. Took a little while longer than I had reckoned, I’m afraid.”

“I believe it. You have been gone for almost three years, am I right?”

“Quite right.”

Upon Anthea’s inviting gesture they sat down. While Mycroft took one of the chairs by the small table, Fitzwilliam sat down on the settee next to their hostess.

“You will not find London much changed,” Mycroft said. “You should be able to slip back into your old ways soon.”

“Good God, I hope not,” laughed Fitzwilliam. “I hope I have become a bit wiser in the meantime.”

“That remains to be seen,” Mycroft murmured. “But pray tell me, do you plan to make your stay in London a more permanent one now that the war is finally over or do you intend to return to America?”

“To be honest, I find myself torn in two. When I was over there, I missed England. I missed London and my friends and family and White’s and Watier’s, of course, and oh, what I would have given to see a decent cockfight –” he interrupted himself and bowed to Anthea. “Forgive me, Lady Harcourt, for bringing up subjects that are unsuitable for a lady’s drawing room. I have not been in gentle company for a long time and I am afraid my manners have suffered greatly.”

“Nothing to forgive, Mr Fitzwilliam,” Anthea said with a smile.

“Much obliged. Anyway, I was looking forward to coming home while I was there, and now that I am finally here, I miss New York. Have you ever been to America, Halsbury?”

“No, I have not.”

“Ah, but you should go. There is so much to see and to do. An endless range of possibilities. America is still so young and full of promises.”

“Unlike England?”

“That is not what I meant,” Fitzwilliam said, a bit stiffly.

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Have you seen your mother yet, Mr Fitzwilliam?” Anthea asked, not wishing for the conversation taking an unpleasant turn. “I did not think to ask you about her when we spoke earlier. A shocking display of thoughtlessness on my part, was it not? So you see,” she said with a soft laugh, “being gone for three years has nothing to do with a shocking lack of manners. It has befallen me in my own house and unlike you, I have no apology to offer.”

“My dear Lady Harcourt, nobody would ever dare accuse you of displaying a lack of manners,” Fitzwilliam immediately replied. “But I thank you for taking away some of my fears about having become quite the uncivilised barbarian. To answer your question, no, I have not seen my mother yet although I have made sure she hears of my safe return to London. I understand she is still at Shepherd’s Hall but my brother tells me she should arrive at Curzon Street any day now. Speaking of brothers,” he turned to face Mycroft, “I ran into Sherl this morning. Literally bumped into him as he was in such a hurry but he took a few moments to chat when he recognised me. He looked really well and I was glad to see it. That policing thing he’s taken on seems to agree with him.”

“Policing thing?” Mycroft echoed, incredulous. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“What, he did not tell you about that?” Fitzwilliam involuntarily shrank back a little. “Oh dear. He will not be pleased to hear I betrayed his little secret.”

“You overestimate my involvement in my brother’s affairs, Fitzwilliam. While I will admit I am surprised to hear it, I assure you I have not the slightest intention of giving you away.”

“Thanks, Halsbury. Devilish good of you. You know what he can be like when you set up his bristles.”

“I do indeed. But pray, let’s not dwell on my brother’s Bow Street ambitions. Tell me why you think America so tempting and what you think are the possibilities worth pursuing.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes lit up. As he animatedly talked about steamboat developments, the latest newspapers being published, the volume of goods being handled at the docks and the multitude of evolving trading companies, Mycroft’s thoughts drifted off to dwell on the bit of news he had just received. Policing? What on earth had got into Sherlock? His brother tended to take on the most outlandish projects when the mood took him – mixing snuff had been his latest fancy – but who would want to occupy oneself with unpleasant affairs such as brawls before public houses, violence and murder? There were far too many criminals for the few detectives London employed, well, for the few detectives who took their profession seriously enough. Those were pitifully outnumbered and the memory of the ‘thief takers’ who had displayed a sad tendency to take more bribes than actual thieves was still far too prominent. Bits and pieces of a conversation he had held at White’s with a certain Sir Robert Peel a few months ago drifted through his mind. Their conversation had moved from general politics to said lack of law officers, and Sir Robert had talked about the professional and uniformed police force of Dublin which might be worth taking a closer look at – here he was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard his own name spoken.

“You look a trifle bored, Halsbury, if I may say so,” Fitzwilliam remarked and although it was delivered lightly, there was a certain degree of hurt in the man’s hazel eyes. “It is not my intention to waste your time with stories that are of no consequence.”

“I apologise but my thoughts indeed drifted off when you mentioned the leather trade. I suddenly remembered my chestnut mare has taken a dislike to the saddle I have just purchased for her and I wondered whether some alterations to the girth might change her mind,” Mycroft lied without flinching.

Fitzwilliam seemed to accept this but out of the corners of his eye, Mycroft noticed that Anthea’s elegantly curved eyebrows had gone up by the tiniest of fraction and he felt like a boy caught with crumbs of a stolen biscuit on his collar.

“Do you have plans for tomorrow afternoon?” he offered in an attempt to make up for his lack of attention. “If you are free I would greatly enjoy meeting you for a ride in Hyde Park.”

“That would be famous but I am afraid I have only just begun setting up my own stables again,” Fitzwilliam replied with obvious regret in his voice. “Of course there is the family’s stables but I’d much rather have my own horses. My carriages are dreadfully outdated, too, and I am certain you would not want to be seen in either of them.”

“In that case, allow me to accompany you to Tattersall’s tomorrow morning. There is a team plus a very smart curricle that you may want to take a look at, and I have heard Rivenham is selling some of his young mounts.”

“Is he indeed?” Fitzwilliam sat up straight, the prospect of being able to purchase one or two of George Rivenham’s famous thoroughbreds making him more willing to forgive the Earl his earlier lapse.

Having thus turned the tide to his favour, Mycroft steered the subject towards horses and driving and both gentlemen and Lady Harcourt soon became engaged in an animated conversation.

They parted on the best of terms, with the Earl and Fitzwilliam agreeing to meet for breakfast at the Earl’s house the next day and setting out to Tattersall’s afterwards, and Anthea offering to address Lady Jersey about Mr Fitzwilliam’s admission to Almack’s, for “it would certainly help you to reacquaint yourself with London if you made your first official appearance there,” she said with a twinkle, and although Fitzwilliam did not seem too fond of the idea of bowing to the club’s patronesses despotic rules, he could not deny the truth of her suggestion and so he gratefully accepted the offer.

When Mycroft asked Hanson for his coat and hat, a discreet cough and a speaking glance in the direction of the nursery made him remember he had given his godson his word to tell him more about his bays, and so he went in search of Frederick to make good on his promise.

 

******

Fitzwilliam showed up exactly on time the next morning, and the two gentlemen partook of a hearty breakfast consisting of very generous slices of ham, eggs, kippers, toast and rolls with butter, accompanied by tea and coffee, and some fresh fruit. Mycroft apologised once more for his inattentiveness the day before and admitted with a rueful grin that his mind had been engaged with this brother’s endeavours rather than what Fitzwilliam had talked about.

Fitzwilliam accepted the apology good-naturedly, saying he was not surprised to hear it. He knew about Mycroft’s concern for his younger brother, having studied at Cambridge together with Sherlock and remembering what the untimely death of the late Earl of Halsbury had done to the brilliant student.

“I truly thought you knew about it,” he said, generously spreading butter on a crispy roll. “I mean, you usually know everything Sherl does, and surely it has not escaped your attention that he looks happier and healthier than he did when I left?”

“It is hardly surprising that you should notice such change in him,” Mycroft pointed out. “You have not seen him in over three years. He certainly is healthier than he was when you last saw him but where his happiness is concerned, well, it is not for me to comment on.” He helped himself to another slice of toast. “Come, Fitzwilliam, let us not talk about somebody who is not here. Tell me about your life in America and what makes it so alluring that you seem tempted to return. You have my word that I will pay attention this time.”

The other man raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief but Mycroft proved good to his word and although he himself had not been to America – and had no intention to ever go – he was still well informed on the latest developments and soon they were deeply engaged in a conversation revolving around politics, trade and the economy. It turned out that Fitzwilliam had familiarised himself with the cotton industry and was considering taking over a factory he had been offered for a good sum.

“I am fairly certain my father would not approve of that scheme since going into the trade is not at all the thing,” he said with a shrug, “but I am only the third son and am unlikely to inherit the family’s fortune. And I’d rather build up my own business and become my own master than work in the employ of one of my father’s cronies because that’s what the _ton_ would approve of.”

“Careful,” Mycroft warned him. “Remember that Lady Harcourt is trying to get you into Almack’s. It would not be wise to say such things while you are trying to set foot into London’s society again.”

“I know and I will remember I was brought up a gentleman while I am here. I meant what I said yesterday, I did miss England and I am devilish glad to be back, but the idea of cutting the string to my father’s purse does have merit.”

“I know how you feel,” Mycroft sighed, and Fitzwilliam shot him an astonished look.

“Really? But you have it all –title, fortune, land, it’s all yours.”

“Indeed it is but believe me, all of this comes with a price.”

For a fleeting moment he toyed with the idea of revealing the fact that his surprising knowledge about overseas trading companies did not stem from a burning interest in trading but from the necessity of paying his father’s debts. When Mycroft had taken on the responsibilities that came with the title he had inherited from his father, he had suffered a not insubstantial shock upon his first meeting with the family’s long-suffering bailiff who had seized the opportunity to lay open the shocking state of the family’s estate before the new Earl. After spending a few weeks in denial, Mycroft had decided to apply what he had learnt during his time with the 11th Hussars. He observed, identified the weak spots and attacked them. And he began to seek out the company of those with insight into the London Stock Exchange, soaked up their knowledge and started making investments, smalls sums at first but growing bolder as his own understanding of the stock dynamics increased. Only the year before he had plunged head first into a transaction that would have cost him dearly had he miscalculated, but his assessment of the political situation that had caused many concerned investors to sell their stakes had been correct and he had earned a very handsome sum that had enabled him to rid his estate of debt once and for all. His current investments were low-risk and conservative, the need to heal the gaping wounds gone.

He reached for the coffee, dismissing the notion of allowing Fitzwilliam too intimate a glance into his family’s affairs and said with a shrug of his own, “But that’s neither here nor there. Now, let’s talk about setting up your stables. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, given the fact that I do not yet know whether or not I will permanently stay in England, I think I should like to start with a gig and a pair, and a riding horse or two. After my visit to Lady Harcourt I went to my father’s stables and much to my surprise detected a very handsome phaeton. Turns out it’s Richard’s but he hardly ever uses it. I’m sure he’ll let me drive it while I am here.”

To that, Mycroft had nothing to say as he was not too familiar with Fitzwilliam’s older brother but he doubted the portly gentleman would begrudge his younger brother the pleasure of driving out in a vehicle that would suit the needs of an adventurous young man much better than those of an up and coming justice of the peace.

They finished their breakfast discussing English cotton imports and American cotton farms and finally made their way to Tattersall’s where Fitzwilliam inspected the horses the Earl pointed out to him and proved to be a good judge of horseflesh himself and quite merciless at bargaining the price.

“I am not surprised you should consider a future in trading,” Mycroft remarked when they drove off in his own phaeton-and-four a good one and a half hour later. “That was a most impressive display of negotiation skills. Congratulations on your purchase, Fitzwilliam, you have selected two very fine teams.”

“And two prime bits of blood, too,” Fitzwilliam said, satisfaction in his voice. “I can’t wait to try them out.”

“And I can’t wait to see you drive those browns. A very handsome pair, I must own.” He lightly flicked the whip over his own team of greys. “Where would you like me to drop you off?”

“Would you mind very much taking me to Lady Harcourt? She was so supportive yesterday and I should very much like to tell her about today’s success.”

“Certainly. Maybe she has news about those vouchers for Almack’s, too.”

Fitzwilliam stifled a sigh. “Almack’s, of course. Say, do they still demand knee breeches?”

“They do.”

“Good God. I will need to see a tailor first before I even contemplate entering the sacred halls. That’s something else I did not miss.”

“I do not blame you.”

“Do you think Lady Harcourt will grant me the pleasure of a dance? It would make Almack’s less of an ordeal if I had a dance with her to look forward to.”

“You should ask her yourself,” Mycroft said, a little stiffly. “I am hardly in a position to answer on her behalf.”

“Of course not.”

He fell silent when Mycroft turned into Half Moon Street and just before they stopped at Lady Harcourt’s house he started as if to say something but checked himself at the last moment as if a thought had occurred to him.

When the phaeton came to a halt, he jumped off and turned to face the Earl.

“Thank you, Halsbury, I had a formidable time. I will send word as soon as I have set up my stables and I hope we can go for a ride together.”

“Please do,” Mycroft replied with a bow. “I should like that a lot.”

He watched as Fitzwilliam took the short flight of steps to the front door with a few brisk steps and when he took up the reins again, signalling his greys to get going, he narrowed his eyes speculatively.

It was not surprising Lady Harcourt would occupy the man’s mind. He had last seen her four years ago, before she followed her husband to Vienna. She had been lovely then but she was beautiful now, and a widow, too. Was it possible that although Fitzwilliam had maintained an appropriate distance to the late Viscount’s wife, he would now consider approaching his widow?

A badly driven gig turning the corner at a badly judged angle called him to immediate attention, however, and demanded his undivided concentration to avoid crushing into an oncoming team of whites. His indispensable tiger almost flew from his seat, so quick was he to rush to his masters’ horses, grabbing the leaders’ bridles and steadying them with soothing noises. When the greys had calmed down, he shot around to the unlucky gig driver and let loose a stream of profanities that would have put a sailor to shame.

“Thank you, Jem, I believe you have made yourself sufficiently clear,” Mycroft said when the other driver’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “Get up, I have an appointment at Hoby’s and you know how I loathe being late.”

Jem obeyed, but not without flinging one last and especially colourful insult over his shoulder.

They drove off and Mycroft shook his head, both at his enraged tiger and at himself for his earlier musings seemed nonsensical from a certain distance.

Still there was no denying a certain amount of unease that clung to his mind for the rest of the day.


	9. An unpleasant evening

The Earl’s spirits remained low during the following day as the continuing silence from his brother’s quarters worried him greatly, and the slight annoyance caused by Mr Fitzwilliam’s apparent interest in Lady Harcourt stuck to the back of his mind. The appearance of Mr Neville at White’s that evening, however, lifted his spirits, if not to cheerfulness but to a more tolerable and less gloomy level.

“Mr Neville,” Halsbury greeted the young diplomat, following a liveried footman into the generous room with his usual easy grace, “what an unexpected pleasure to see you. How do you do?”

“How do you do, sir. Please forgive me for seeking you out without requesting a proper appointment but I have news that might interest you.”

“No apology required, Mr Neville.” Halsbury gestured towards an unoccupied settee. “Please, sit. Would you like a refreshment?”

“Thank you, sir, that would be very kind indeed.”

They sat down and Halsbury signalled for another footman to attend to them. When a decanter of Madeira was set down on the small table, the Earl poured each of them a glass of the rich tawny liquid, offered one to Neville and leaned back with a smile.

“Well, Mr Neville, what news do you bring?”

Neville looked over his shoulder, as if to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear their conversation, and when he had ascertained himself of sufficient enough privacy, he cleared his throat.

“My lord, I have come to tell you the documents are about to be safely restored to their rightful owner.”

“Are they? I am glad to hear it. Are you at liberty to tell me anything about it?”

“I wish I could,” Neville made a helpless gesture. “All I can tell you that when I was on my way to keeping various appointments this afternoon, I was approached by a young man who, claiming acquaintance to the Viscountess Harcourt, presented me with a briefcase but instructing me not to open it until I was alone. I will readily admit that I was sorely tempted but as opening it in public was out of the question and having no opportunity to safely deposit it, I took it with me to the shoemaker and the shirtmaker, too.”

“Oh dear,” Halsbury said, slightly amused. “That must have been rather uncomfortable.”

“Indeed. I hardly dared put it out of my hand, afraid its contents would burn a hole into the leather. Discussing shirts has never been such a pain before.”

“I can imagine.”

“The sheer relief I felt when I finally reached my rooms! And the joy when I pulled out the envelope that contained the missing documents – I do not know how to thank you, Lord Halsbury! I am forever in your debt.”

“I wish I could take full credit,” Halsbury replied, inclining his head, “but you should present your thanks to Lady Harcourt for she has contributed as much as I have.”

“I will. I shall pay her a morning visit tomorrow.”

“When will you be returning to Vienna?”

“As soon as I can. I had hoped to stay a little while longer for there are matters of business to be discussed and some organisational things to be looked into but I am afraid all these will have to wait until this rather delicate affair has been concluded.” He permitted himself the luxury of a barely audible sigh and took a sip of Madeira. “This is what I miss most of all,” he said with a note of longing in his voice. “A gentlemen’s club where one is permitted to enjoy a few moments of comfortable peace and a good wine.”

“As far as I recall, there are similar establishments in Vienna. Are they not to your liking?”

“Oh, they are pleasant enough, and yet it’s not the same.”

They exchanged a knowing look and spent an agreeable half hour discussing foreign assignments, exchanged a few anecdotes and ended up discussing politics and the Vienna Congress. The young man proved to be refreshing conversational partner and when they finally said their good-byes, they did so with firm handshakes, an exchange of cards and an invitation for Mr. Neville to call upon the Earl when he was in London next. Neville eagerly accepted this and left White’s with a decided spring in his step.

The Earl returned to the card room and found with a certain degree of displeasure that not only had Richard Fitzwilliam taken over his seat at the Whist table but had brought his younger brother with him, too, his name granting a guest permission to enter the private rooms despite the fact that the younger Fitzwilliam himself was not a member of White’s.

Any hope of discreetly retreating was quickly dashed, for the intruder spotted him instantly and cheerfully called out to him.

“Halsbury! I was hoping I’d catch you here. Come, sit with me. I must tell you about this afternoon.”

Years of practice enabled Halsbury to conjure up a friendly smile and he accepted the offered seat but politely declined the Sherry.

“Just imagine,” Fitzwilliam began excitedly, “I received word that one of the hacks I purchased was ready for pick-up this afternoon, despite what had been agreed upon yesterday, and as I had nothing planned in particular, I wasted no time. What a prime bit of blood! Sweet mouthed and well broken in but still stubborn enough to provide me with a bit of a challenge. Took him to Hyde Park right away but stayed off the crowded paths.”

He launched into an enthusiastic and lively description of the first ride he had enjoyed with his new mount, and Halsbury began to relax and started ascribing his earlier feelings of resentment towards the younger man to a wildly sprung figment of his imagination, when –

“And just as I was turning the horse around to return to my family’s stables – I had ordered a box to be made ready before I left – I spotted Lady Harcourt in her curricle. By Jove, but she is a remarkable woman indeed! Driving to the inch, and dashingly dressed, too. I reckon less than a handful of women are able to sport such a daring riding habit, the military cut hugging her curves –”

“You are forgetting yourself, Fitzwilliam,” Halsbury coldly interrupted. “I cannot imagine such vulgarity is customary even amongst Americans. You would do well to remember you were brought up a gentleman unless you expressly wish to be excluded from polite circles during your stay in London.”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the younger man whose countenance had flushed with embarrassment. “It was not my intention to insult Lady Harcourt. I had merely wished to –”

“Whatever your intentions, they are of no further consequence,” Halsbury replied, standing up. “If you will please excuse me. I have an early morning appointment for which I must not be late and it would be wise for me to retire. I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr Fitzwilliam.”

With a curt nod he took his leave and walked briskly out of the room, his face his usual impassive mask. Only those closely familiar with him noticed the rigidity in his shoulders and correctly interpreted his tight-lipped smile as a warning sign.

(“Good God, what has come over him?” Mr Tomney remarked to Lord Rawlings. “He looks positively murderous.” Lord Rawlings shrugged. “Better stay out of his path then. Pity, I was hoping to lure him to the Faro table.”)

 

With an impatient gesture Mycroft waved his approaching carriage away.

“I have no need for my coach, thank you.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the plainly dressed individual sitting next to his coachman jump down and approved of this with barely visible nod. Timothy Larkin, his head groom, had taken on the duty of serving as his master’s bodyguard whenever the Earl decided to walk through London by himself as was his habit when he needed to mull things over. Although he never ventured near the unsavoury parts of the city, not wishing to issue an open invitation to those individuals interested in emptying somebody’s pockets or divesting him of various body parts, he was aware that those individuals not always restricted themselves to shady alleys or dark corners. Larkin had been his sergeant during his time on the Peninsula and not only was he a more than capable groom but handy with a pistol and quick with his fists. With Larkin by his side – or behind him – he felt safe enough to brave nightly London on foot.

Fitzwilliam. What an insolent creature! Had America stripped him of all of his manners? How dared he comment on Lady Harcourt’s… curves in the presence of others? How dared he comment on Lady Harcourt at all? Although he could not claim to have ever been on any other but the most fleeting terms with Fitzwilliam, the man had never struck him as vulgar. He searched his memory but all he managed to dig out were a few vague images of a very young Patrick Fitzwilliam spending a week here and there to study with Sherlock. He had not been the best of study partners, his intellect – although far from slow – not being anywhere near Sherlock’s, but Mycroft remembered the two boys going fishing and riding together and as Sherlock seemed to have enjoyed the company and Patrick had been a cheerful youngling of impeccable upbringing, he had not spent too much time on analysing young Fitzwilliam’s character. He was the third son of Sir Lucas Fitzwilliam, with two older brothers and one older sister before him, and two younger sisters and a baby brother whom he had loved dearly. Andrew, the late Viscount Harcourt, had been better acquainted with Fitzwilliam and had occasionally mentioned him in his letters to Mycroft but only in reference to a particularly good sparring match at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, the one thing Mycroft and Andrew had never agreed on. Mycroft frowned. If ‘Fitz’ had made improper advances to his wife, Andrew surely would not have called him a bang-up cove who displayed to advantage?

Still, people changed and who knew what Fitzwilliam, who had served in the 29th Regiment, had witnessed during the Battle of Hampden. War and its horrors left scars on every man’s soul, as Mycroft himself knew only too well. But even so, if one moved in polite circles, one had to remember one’s manners at all cost. Lewd remarks about a lady’s figure were not the thing at all.

 _‘The military cut hugging her curves’_ indeed.

The memory of Anthea’s soft curves moulding against his body surfaced, unbidden, from the corner of his mind where he had tried to lock it safely away, and Mycroft grit his teeth and gripped his Malacca cane tightly, walking briskly and with unfashionable speed. He had always thought the Viscountess a lovely creature and had watched her grow into a beauty but until the kiss they had shared when she had accepted his proposal of marriage, his observations had been of a somewhat scientific and abstract nature, much like watching a moth transform into a beautiful butterfly. Not that Anthea had ever been a moth, but that was beside the point.

Her lips had been so soft and kissing her had felt so very different from the kisses he had shared before, with others. He had thought about that kiss more often than he would admit even to himself, and he had been tempted to repeat it, to steal another kiss, but he had not dared, unsure whether it would have been welcome. Besides, they were hardly ever truly alone and one must never forget that a lady’s reputation was everything. He would never put her at risk, but oh, had he been tempted!

A discreet cough behind him pulled him out of his disturbing thoughts and he noticed he had been about to walk past his own house. Shaking his head, he walked up to the main door and was about to let himself in when the door was opened.

“Mulroney,” he said, surprised. “Why are you still up? Did I not tell you not to wait up for me?”

His butler made a stiff bow and stepped back to let his master enter the hall.

“You did indeed, your lordship, and I was just about to retire, having finished going through the inventory of your lordship’s wine cellar one last time,” he closed the door and accepted hat and cane, “when there was a knock at the door.” His kept his tone neutral but Mycroft sensed something was amiss.

“Yes?” he encouraged.

“Begging your lordship’s pardon for what must seem a display of curiosity unworthy of a member of your lordship’s household but given the rather alarming level of intensity with which the doorknocker was employed, I deemed it necessary to open the door with what must have seemed unduly haste.”

Mulroney’s wooden expression transported the butler’s expectation of a sharp rebuke and Mycroft swallowed the words of impatience he had been about to utter in reply to that lengthy introduction, reminding himself just in time that Mulroney had been in his family’s employ for as long as he could remember and had suffered from more than just a sharp rebuke when his father had been head of the family.

“No need to worry, Mulroney,” he said instead. “So who was the late visitor who endangered the well-being of my doorknocker?”

The butler visibly relaxed and allowed his features to convey some of the worry he was undoubtedly harbouring.

“He provided me with his card but upon my telling him that your lordship was not available to receive late visitors he merely asked whether your lordship had left town or whether your lordship had merely gone out and would be expected back.” He swallowed. “Praying your forgiveness, my lord, but his card startled me into providing him with the information that your lordship had indeed gone out to keep some evening appointments. Please accept my sincere apologies for this most regrettable lack of presence of mind which is not what is to be expected from a man in my position. Should your lordship wish to remove me from a position I am clearly unable to fill, I will go and pack my things at once.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mulroney, you have not committed high treason. I see no reason at all to remove you from my household but will you kindly provide me with a reply to my question regarding the mysterious visitor's identity and whether he has left a message for me?”

Overcome with strong emotions, Mulroney bowed to the Earl, stammering words of thanks for not having to face an uncertain future. When he raised his eyes to his master’s face, detecting a hint of impatience, he pulled himself back together.

“The gentleman – although I am hesitant to call him that – made it clear he would not leave before your lordship returns, and seeing he was ignorant to my warning that your lordship would likely be out for quite a while, I took the liberty of showing him into the library and even went so far as to offer him a refreshment.”

“So he’s still here?” Mycroft asked, startled. “Good God, you should have said so right away! Show me his card at once.”

He shrugged out of his overcoat while the butler hurried to fetch the desired item, handed the garment into the care of a sleepy footman who had arrived sometime during the exchange between master and butler and held out his hand when Mulroney hastened towards him.

“Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” he read aloud, his voice holding an incredulous tone. “A Bow Street Runner? In my house?” He walked towards his library with long strides and opened the door, not bothering to wait for his butler to catch up with him.

The policeman, who no doubt had heard their voices filtering into the library from the hall, rose from the armchair where he had sat waiting for the Earl to return, a half full wineglass sitting on the small table next to it, along with a newspaper. He stepped forward, gave a short bow of near military precision and extended his hand.

“Lestrade,” he introduced himself. “I apologise for the intrusion, my lord, but I am afraid the matter is of some urgency.”

For the fraction of a second, Mycroft stood stunned. The man before him was no other than Wellbie’s riding companion, only now he was dressed in clothes made of a heavy, sturdy material in somber shades of brown. There were shadows under his eyes and stubble showing on his cheeks and chin, but it was him, no doubt about it. He would recognise those very dark eyes anywhere.

“Inspector,” Mycroft replied automatically, accepted the man’s hand and shook it, sensing that now was not the time to comment on their brief encounter in the park. “How may I be of service to Bow Street?”

“Strictly speaking, I am not here on Bow Street business, Lord Halsbury, well, not regarding a matter that actively involves you or a member of your household. I have come because of your brother.”

“My brother?” A chill crept up Mycroft’s spine. “What is the matter? What happened?”

“There has been an incident, sir. I am afraid the Viscount has been injured.”

******

The day was not going well for Lestrade. Not only had he wasted all morning and most of the afternoon pursuing a lead that had proven wrong; he had come back from his unsuccessful thief hunt to find that not only had the door to his small office been left open and the ensuing draught had swept almost all the paper from his desk, but nobody had bothered to pick up the sheets and the floor was cluttered with what had been three neat piles of paper (done, to be reviewed, to be written). 

Lestrade took one look at the mess and let loose a string of words that turned the air around him quite blue. With a scowl directed at the suspiciously quiet policemen scattered around the four desks outside his office, he slammed the door behind himself and started cleaning up, re-emerging only to bark an order at one of the constables to fetch him something to eat, then buried himself in his work again.

 

A knock on his door made him start, causing the ink to splatter.

“Come,” he called, reaching for the blotting paper and looked up. “Oh, it’s you. Good evening, Marsh. Aren’t you supposed to be doing your rounds?”

“I’ve just returned, Inspector. It’s past nine, sir.”

“What?” Lestrade pulled out his watch and checked the time. “It is indeed. How time flies when you’re having fun,” he added bitterly. “So, Constable, you’ve got something to report?”

“There has been a brawl at the Purple Hen, sir.”

The Purple Hen was a well-known gaming hell, hovering dangerously close to illegal. The teams of this and the neighbouring district’s police station took turns inspecting the premises unannounced but so far, they had not been able to detect sufficient enough evidence to close the establishment. Brawls were a daily occurrence and so Lestrade made a dismissing gesture.

“Hardly worth reporting in.” Noticing his constable’s rigid posture, he narrowed his eyes in sudden suspicion. “Or is it?”

Marsh visibly steeled himself. “You are acquainted with one of the victims, I’m afraid.”

“What?”

“It’s that consultant of yours, sir, Mr Holmes.”

Lestrade was out of his chair and around his desk in the blink of an eye, reaching for his overcoat. “How bad is it? Is he alive?”

“He was when I left him.”

“Where is he? I hope for your own sake you didn’t leave him at the Hen.”

“Of course not. He didn’t have his calling cards with him and I couldn’t arrange for him to be taken to his lodgings so I –,” he cleared his throat, “I gave the hackney driver your address, sir, for lack of a more suitable alternative. Please forgive me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did right, Marsh. Who went with him?”

“Fenton did. He patched him up as best he could, to make sure he was fit for transport.”

That was a relief. Fenton was ex-military, a seasoned policeman who had seen his share of wounds and injuries and kept a cool head where needed. Lestrade fumbled with the buttons of his coat on his way out.

“Marsh, with me,” he called over his shoulder. “Sorry about your evening but I might need you yet.”

He all but ran outside, the constable following close on his heels. A hackney stood waiting for them, they jumped in and when they arrived at Lestrade’s house, another vehicle was just turning around the corner at moderate speed. It came to a halt and Fenton climbed out.

“Evening, sir. Impeccable timing, if I may say so. Patient’s inside. Lost a lot of blood – yes, you will be compensated,” he shouted in the direction of the driver’s seat where a muttered complaint could be heard. “Pulse is weak but steady, and so is the heartbeat. Poor sod lost his consciousness somewhere along the way. Marsh, lend me a hand here?”

Lestrade paid both drivers, handed the disgruntled driver of the makeshift patient transport his card with the instruction to come by the next morning to be reimbursed for the cleaning of his vehicle, instructed the other driver to wait as his services might be needed again, then hastened to unlock his door and lit some rush-lights.

By the time Holmes was carried inside, he had covered his bed with two old woollen blankets to avoid soiling his mattress with blood.

“Careful now,” Fenton was saying. “There’s blood seeping through the bandages. Where do we put him, sir?”

“Right here, on my bed.”

He stepped aside and watched the policemen lay Holmes down. The consulting detective was ghostly pale, there was a fine sheen of sweat on his face and his breathing was shallow. His fine shirt and waistcoat had been ripped open, probably by Fenton when he had assessed the injuries, and the elegant coat was ruined beyond saving. But he was still breathing and Lestrade said a quick prayer of thanks.

“Do you have anything I can use to dress the wounds, sir?”

“Will an old shirt do?”

The constable eyed him dubiously.

“It’s clean,” Lestrade assured him. “I’m not precisely equipped with full medical gear.”

“Well, I guess it’s better than nothing.”

Lestrade rummaged through his modest wardrobe and when he found what he had been looking for, he flung it at Fenton.

“Do you think he will make it?” The bandage covering Holmes’ ribcage was soaked in blood, as was the one on his left flank.

Fenton shrugged and started tearing the shirt into lengths of almost identical size. He had clearly done this before. “I’ll do what I can but the lad needs a doctor, that’s for sure. He’s that consultant of yours, right? Is he married? Does he have family?” He handed the pieces of fabric to Marsh who accepted them with shaking hands.

“Yes, he is our consulting detective and no, he is not married. But he does have a brother.” He worried his lower lip and came to a conclusion. “I’ll fetch him. I had thought to wait until tomorrow but this –,” he made a helpless gesture towards Holmes who lay so uncharacteristically still and whose face had gone from ghostly pale to – no, he would not even think the word. “Do you need anything else?”

“Do you have brandy?”

“For the patient?”

Fenton gave a dry chuckle. “For the constable. His shift is officially over and he looks like he needs it.” He motioned towards Marsh whose face was nearly as pale as that of Holmes. “I’ll need his help and I can’t have him faint like a little miss.”

“I won’t faint,” Marsh protested in a weak voice.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Fenton, bending over Holmes.

Lestrade fetched the desired beverage, poured a glass and handed it to the younger policeman.

“Here you go, lad. Fenton’s right. We can’t have you faint on my floor.”

He watched Marsh gulp down the brandy and put the bottle on the table.

“You sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“Go get the brother, sir.” Fenton’s voice sounded grave. “If I can’t stop the bleeding, our friend here might not live to see tomorrow. Better not waste any more time. If the brother has the means to get a doctor in the middle of the night, make sure he does.”

“I’ll see to it,” Lestrade said. He went to his desk and scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “This is the brother’s address. I’m not sure if he’s even at home. If I’m taking too long and if anything happens, this is where you’ll find me.” He stuffed the paper into Marsh’s upper coat pocket. With one last glance at the motionless form of Holmes, he turned and went back outside, instructed the hackney driver – who was taking full advantage of a paid break and was happily chewing on what looked to be a solid, homemade sandwich – where to take him and sat down heavily on the worn passengers’ seat.

So this was how he would see the Earl of Halsbury again. Showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night to deliver the message that his younger brother had been badly wounded.

Not quite what he had imagined.

 


	10. The Earl and the Inspector are greatly worried

“Injured?” the Earl repeated. “How bad is it?”

“I cannot say for sure, my lord,” Lestrade carefully replied, Holmes’ pale face and bloodstained clothes still vivid in his memory. “One of my men is looking after him and while he has given me no reason to fear for the worst,” and may God forgive him for bending the truth, “I thought it my duty to inform his next of kin and as I only know of a brother – that is you, your lordship – I wasted no time and came here at once.”

“You did right,” the Earl said. “Thank you. Where is he now?”

“At my house.”

The Earl’s eyes were impossible to read when he studied Lestrade’s face for what seemed like an eternity. Despite him having been subject to Holmes’ stares more often than he cared to remember, Lestrade had to fight an impulse to squirm, feeling laid bare and under scrutiny, much like an insect. The older brother’s stare had a very different quality to it but try as he might, Lestrade could not specify what it was that made him so fidgety.

Then the Earl nodded, as if he had reached a conclusion.

“Very well. Would it be too much to ask of you to wait for a moment or two? While it may seem like an unnecessary delay I believe it will save precious time once we arrive with my brother.”

“Certainly, my lord. May I wait here?”

“Of course. I will be with you very shortly.” On his way out of the room he stopped to ask over his shoulder, “May I have your address, Inspector? I’d like to instruct my coachman beforehand.”

Lestrade bowed and provided him with the requested information, then sat back down but uneasily perched on the edge on the armchair. The Earl’s reaction to the news of his brother having been injured had not at all been what he had expected and as he listened to him give orders to his servants, the suspicion dawned on him that this was not the first crisis the Earl was facing.

“Mulroney, have my brother’s room prepared for him. The Viscount will be staying for some time, make sure the usual is taken care of and have a hot stone placed at the foot of the bed. Have the maids prepare hot water and clean towels as well. Thank you. – Ah, Jem, there you are. Excellent hearing. Run off to the stables and have Larkin harness the bays to the town coach. You must leave for this address immediately. Yes, I want you to accompany Larkin. Take some extra blankets and see if either Waring or Jensen is available. An extra pair of hands might be helpful. – Wait, Jem, have Wanderer and Raincloud saddled for the Inspector and myself. Off you go, lad, hurry. – Gibson, I’ve never been so glad to see you up and ready instead of asleep as ordered. I need to go and fetch my brother. Please get my riding gear ready, the brown set. I’ll change myself, thank you, but please see me in my room for further instructions.”

Then Lestrade heard the Earl stride off and was left to his own thoughts. He listened to the household stir to life in the middle of the night like a well-oiled machinery and wondered whether Halsbury was indeed the ogre his brother had painted him to be and whether his servants were cruelly drilled into obedience. That elderly butler of his, however, had not seemed at all fearful of his master; respectful, yes, and a trifle worried about Lestrade’s nightly intrusion, but unafraid. The Earl’s tone towards his servant had left no doubt that he expected his orders to be obeyed to the letter but he had not sounded like a despot, had even said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as if it wasn’t the most natural thing for a servant to do his master’s bidding. But who knew what had happened between the brothers to make the younger one perceive the elder as the family tyrant? God knew Lestrade himself had quarrelled with his siblings over the most ridiculous of things!

Less than fifteen minutes later the Earl reappeared, a lot sooner than Lestrade had expected. He didn’t know an awful lot about gentlemen’s customs of getting dressed but had always suspected it to be a somewhat lengthy process that included endless arranging of cravats and selecting all kinds of fobs and fripperies to go with whatever waistcoat and whatever coat and that could not be done without the assistance of a valet. The Earl’s earlier appearance had certainly looked like the result of just such an intricate process. The man striding into the library now, however, was dressed in no-nonsense riding leathers of a surprisingly sturdy quality, exquisitely cut to their wearer’s measurements but not fit for parading up and down Rotten Row at fashionable hours. Tall boots and light tan knee patch breeches accentuated a pair of very fine legs – and very long legs they were, too –, but neither waistcoat nor coat looked as if the Earl needed anybody’s help to put them on and the intricately arranged neckcloth had been replaced by one tied in a very austere style. On his way into the library he shrugged into an overcoat that had obviously been made with practicality rather than the latest fashion in mind and held out his hand for his hat. It was handed to him by a stern-looking individual of spare build who had followed the Earl into the library.

“Thank you, Gibson,” the Earl said. “That will be all. Please be on your way now.”

“Yes, your lordship.” Gibson bowed himself out of the room and the Earl looked at Lestrade.

“Shall we, Inspector?”

“Certainly, my lord,” Lestrade had risen upon the Earl’s entering the library.

“My coach should be on the way to your address,” the Earl said as they made their way across the hall. He waited for Lestrade to be handed his hat and overcoat and when he had donned both, they went outside. “I have taken the liberty of having two of my horses saddled so we should arrive at your house at the same time as the coach, if not quicker.” He indicated towards the chestnut. “That’s Wanderer. I trust you’ll be able to handle him.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, surprised. When he had overheard the orders given to the servants while waiting in the library, he had not been prepared to be given one of the Earl’s very own mounts, for there could be no doubt that the prime bit of horseflesh shown to him was just that. Despite the dim light there was no mistaking the horse’s deep chest, the shiny coat or the clear, bright eyes. Lestrade touched his hand to the horse’s soft nose and gently patted its neck. Sensing the Earl’s impatience and reminding himself of the urgency, however, he took the bridle from the groom and swung himself into the saddle. The groom adjusted the stirrups and quickly stepped aside.

As soon as traffic permitted, they fell into a brisk trot and although Lestrade tried very hard not to enjoy himself too much, it took less than a few minutes to accept defeat. Wanderer was a wonderful horse, the perfect mixture of spirited and sweet-tempered, clearly itching to be given free rein but as soon as Lestrade had proven himself worthy of his cooperation, he found the horse to be exceptionally well trained, reactive of even the slightest leg aid.

“Does Wanderer meet with your approval?”

Lestrade looked to his right and met the Earl’s eyes. “Very much so, my lord,” he said with a rueful grin. “I only wish the opportunity was a more pleasurable one. I feel I should chastise myself for feeling such unduly joy.”

The Earl acknowledged that with a brisk nod. “It’s very seldom that I allow strangers ride one of my own horses but from what I’ve seen of you the other day I was fairly certain you would know how to handle a horse like him.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“No need to thank me, Inspector. You’re doing me a favour. I haven’t had much time lately to exercise all of my horses and poor Wanderer here was getting dangerously close to developing the equine equivalent of cabin fever, I’m afraid.”

When they turned into a street that was less frequented by wide and stately vehicles that tended to block the road, not because of their actual width but because of the ever ongoing disputes of their respective coachmen about whose passenger was the more important one and therefore to be given immediate right of way, they let their horses fall into an easy canter, not galloping along at breakneck speed but still a lot faster than the earlier trot which made conversation near impossible.

While Lestrade was well aware this was not the time for either idle chit-chat or polite conversation, he was equally aware of a certain feeling of regret. Not a natural conversationalist at the best of times, he would nevertheless have liked to talk some more with the Earl who was so different than he had expected. In fact, he was intrigued by Holmes’ older brother. Haughty aristocrat at first glance, brisk and efficient in times of crisis, surprisingly generous when least expected, and all within less than half an hour. Handsome, too. Not in a conventional sense, with his beak of a nose and a hairline that was sadly showing first signs of receding; rather, it was his clear grey-and-blue eyes, the easy grace and elegance with which he moved, his very long legs, and oh, his voice. A voice like silk. Or velvet? No, silk. Definitely silk. Smooth and soft, and crisp and cool.

He was yanked out of his reverie when said voice asked, “Do we turn left or right to reach your street, Inspector?”

“Uhm –” Lestrade blinked. “Left. We have to turn left.” He pointed. “Your coachman will have taken the right turn which leads to a wider street that has better lighting and is better suited for carriages but on horseback or on foot you will turn left because it’s shorter. Follow me.”

He led the way through a maze of smaller and badly lit streets until they came to one that was once again wider and flanked with two rows of modest, but neat buildings. Pointing again, he said, “See over there? Your carriage has already arrived.”

When they arrived at Lestrade’s house it became obvious that the Earl’s men had not been idle. The carriage door facing towards the house stood wide open and allowed Lestrade see an impromptu sickbed that had been built with the help of some blankets and what looked to be a pair of folding stools that bridged the gap between the passenger seats. A very slim and short young man stood by the horses while a sturdy looking individual knelt before a wooden box that seemed to contain bandages and some medical instruments. He stopped rummaging through its contents when the horses came to a halt and looked up.

“Your lordship,” he greeted the Earl, stood up and bowed. “You will be relieved to hear the Viscount is in a stable condition. Constable Fenton has been looking after him and has not only managed to stop the bleeding but has bandaged the wounds expertly enough for us to be able to transport the Viscount. A very capable man, if I may say so, sir.”

The Earl had jumped off his horse during that speech and, having handed the reins to the slim young man who had left his post as soon as his master’s feet had left his stirrups, stood listening to the man with no visible signs of impatience.

“If that is so, may I ask why you’re going through your medical kit with such diligence?”

“Well, my lord, Fenton had to tear one of the Inspector’s shirts apart for lack of proper bandages and I’d like to add another layer as well as apply some pressure to make sure the wound won’t start bleeding again while we transport the Viscount.”

“I see. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

The words were directed at Lestrade who had dismounted as well and now stood by Wanderer, not sure whether to simply tether him to the lamppost or whether he, too, should hand the rains to the young man. The decision was taken from him when the man reached out and took hold of Wanderer’s bridle.

“I have him, sir,” he said with a surprisingly deep voice. “You take his lordship to see his brother.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said.

The young man’s eyes swept across him. “You handled him very nicely,” he said with a faint smile and for a moment Lestrade wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the horse or the Earl. “He’s a good one but likes to drag his rider through a brief battle of strength before he decides to cooperate.”

The Earl’s voice interrupted their brief exchange.

“Inspector?”

“Coming, my lord.” Lestrade nodded at the man. “He has a sweet mouth. I enjoyed riding him.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but decided against it and followed the Earl into his house. On the threshold he paused for a moment, taking in the sight that greeted him and not enjoying it at all. His small but neat home had been turned into something like a field hospital and it looked as if it was not one patient his men had tended to but at least three. Blood-soaked rags were scattered on the floor, a fire had been lit – very messily so, Lestrade noticed with a frown and wondered whether his constables thought starting a fire was an unduly challenging task, something they had never done before, perhaps? – and most of his furniture had been shoved into each available and sufficiently big enough corner to create a wider path.

He grit his teeth and walked towards the bed. Holmes’ boots had been removed and he lay with his feet propped up on a pillow and a folded woollen blanket. He had been stripped off his waistcoat and shirt which had been flung carelessly aside, past saving anyway, as was his coat. His overcoat – dirty and stained, too – had been thrown on the table, right where Lestrade usually sat down to eat. He made a mental note to thoroughly scrub the wooden surface as soon as he had his house to himself again.

Fenton greeted Lestrade with a grim nod.

“He’s hanging in there, sir,” he said. “He’s a lot tougher than I had first thought. I think he’s safe to transport, if the ride isn’t too long.”

Lestrade saw with relief that while Holmes was still white as a sheet and covered in sweat, the near deathly pallor that had caused Lestrade such a fright earlier had left him and his breathing was shallow but steady.

“Thank you, Fenton.” He turned towards the Earl. “My lord, may I present Constable Fenton, one of my most able men. He has looked after the Viscount and has tended to his wounds. Fenton, this is his lordship the Earl of Halsbury, Holmes’ brother.”

Fenton bowed a little awkwardly but Halsbury held out his hand.

“I am very much obliged to you, Constable. I cannot thank you enough for what you have done.”

“No need to thank me, my lord, I consider it my duty to lend whatever help I can offer to my fellow men.”

“I am certain you have done far more than that. I am in your debt,” Halsbury said with a firm nod, then crouched down beside his brother. “Oh Sherlock, what have you done now,” he murmured, his voice thick with worry. He took one of Holmes’ hands in his and to Lestrade’s utter surprise pressed it against his cheek. Holmes’ eyes fluttered open and close but he gave no visible sign of recognition. Halsbury reached out and touched the back of his hand to Holmes’ forehead, as if to check for a fever.

“Are you absolutely sure he’s ready for transport?” he asked over his shoulder, his eyes not leaving his brother’s face.

“Yes, my lord, provided the ride isn’t too long but I’ve been given to understand that your carriage made it here in about forty-five minutes. Besides, your men have turned your carriage into quite the ambulance vehicle and I see no reason why Mr Holmes – sorry, my lord, I mean the young lord – uh, the Viscount…” he started to stammer and scratched his head, then cleared his throat. “In any case, your brother, my lord. He should be alright. Sir. May I ask whether there’ll be a doctor looking after him any time soon?”

Halsbury rose from his crouch in one fluid movement.

“Indeed there will be. I have sent for my personal physician and I trust he will be waiting by the time we arrive.” He motioned for his men to come closer. “Waring, Larkin, get the Viscount safely into the carriage. Larkin, you said something about adding another layer of bandages? Please see to it immediately. Inspector, if I may have a quick word in private?”

“Certainly, my lord.”

They stepped outside and walked to the corner away from the street, the only chance to exchange a few private sentences given the current crowded status of Lestrade’s house.

“There is not much time now to properly thank you,” Halsbury said. “You will understand I want to get my brother home immediately. But please, Inspector, do call on me at your earliest convenience. There are a few questions I should dearly like to ask you.”

“My lord –,” Lestrade began but Halsbury raised his hand.

“I will not ask you to betray my brother’s obvious trust in you, Inspector. You have my word on that. But I would indeed appreciate being given some more details on tonight’s events. I will instruct Mulroney, my butler, to welcome you into my house should you call during a time I am gone, provided you have enough time to wait. You are of course welcome to enquire after my brother’s health, if you wish and if you are interested. Perhaps you would even like to pay him a visit as soon as he’s well enough to receive visitors. In that case, please do not hesitate to do so, Inspector. I will leave instructions for that as well.”

“Thank you, my lord. I will gladly accept your offer. And although this may be an inappropriate time to express joy, allow me to tell you once more I greatly enjoyed riding Wanderer. He is a wonderful horse.”

The Earl started as if to say something, then changed his mind and nodded. “We shall speak about that, too.” He shifted his gaze from Lestrade towards his men carrying Holmes to the carriage on a makeshift stretcher. “I must see my brother home now. I will of course reimburse you for any damage or expenses you have incurred.”

“That will not be necessary, my lord,” Lestrade hastily said. “No harm done. I’ll just clean up and it’ll be good as new.”

“Except for that shirt of yours that was sacrificed to dress my brother’s wounds, it would seem.”

“Well, yes. Except for that. But it was an old shirt, my lord, nothing to worry about.”

“We shall see about that. In any case, Inspector, you have my deepest gratitude for what you have done. Good night.”

He extended his hand and Lestrade took it. The Earl had a firm, pleasant handshake but Lestrade had not expected anything less from a man who handled his powerful horses with such ease.

“Good night, my lord.”

Lestrade looked after him as he made his way towards his carriage with long strides, then squared his shoulders and walked into his house. He wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep tonight, that much was certain.

“Need help with that, sir?” Fenton asked, gesturing about him.

“No, thanks. If anyone’s ever deserved a good night’s sleep, it’s you. I’m not a man of medicine and certainly no expert but I don’t think Holmes would have made it without you.”

“That’s not for me to say, sir. But let me tell you, he’s a lot tougher than he looks. He’s a fighter, that one.” He worried his lower lip. “Did you know he was a Viscount with an Earl for a brother?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Don’t you find it a bit odd, a Viscount doing policing work and all?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Not for me to say,” he echoed Fenton’s words. “All I can say is he’s doing a damned fine job and I wouldn’t want to miss him and his insight. I trust I can count on your discretion with regards to his title and family?”

“Of course, sir. If I may say so, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who flaunts his title about wherever he goes.”

“I’d be more than surprised if he did,” Lestrade nodded. “Say, Fenton, what did you do with Marsh?”

“Sent him home as soon as his lordship’s men arrived,” Fenton replied, grinning. “Poor lad helped as best he could but turned so green around his nose each time he looked at Holmes that I was afraid I’d have to look after two patients sooner rather than later. Traded shifts with him.” He winked. “He was so desperate to leave that he would have agreed to almost everything, I reckon.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Have I ever told you there’s a decidedly cruel streak in you?”

Fenton huffed and repeated his offer to help Lestrade clean up and this time, Lestrade accepted. They worked in silence, quickly and efficiently, and with his constable’s help Lestrade’s home soon looked like a home again; a lot sooner than it would have without Fenton, that much was sure.

“What should we do with Holmes’ clothes, sir?” Fenton gestured towards the pile of bloodied materials. “I’d say burn ‘em along with the rest, at least the shirt and waistcoat. The coat,” he shrugged, “I don’t know. Looks ruined to me.”

Lestrade bent down and pulled the coat out of the pile. “Don’t know,” he said. “It sure looks horrible but maybe a clever seamstress could still make something out of that. Put it aside. His boots are still here, too. I’ll take boots and both coats with me when I go to see Holmes' brother and leave the decision to him.” He folded coat and overcoat and set both on one of the stools. “As for the rest, I’ll have it all burnt tomorrow.”

“Right. Shame, really, it’s good material.”

“But there’s no way you’d get the blood out. A thrifty housekeeper would probably box my ears but I’m not going to sift through this stinking pile for bits and pieces that could still be used. It’ll burn.”

They stuffed the bloodstained rags into a bag made from Lestrade’s bedsheet that was smeared with Holmes’ blood as well and put it outside, right next to the door for Lestrade to pick it up on his way to the police station the next morning.

When Fenton finally left, Lestrade had just enough strength left for some very basic washing up. He stripped out of his clothes and climbed into bed naked but although he was tired to the bones, sleep wouldn’t come. His thoughts kept revolving around the two very strange brothers and one question mystified him greatly: not once had Halsbury asked what exactly had happened to Holmes or where the _incident_ had occurred. He had enquired about the injury and his whereabouts, had arranged and organised everything for his brother’s retrieval, but had asked not one question as to what had befallen his younger brother. _How very odd._

And with that last thought, he finally drifted off into sleep.

******

While the two policemen were cleaning up Lestrade’s home, the Earl was sitting next to his brother, his eyes not leaving Sherlock’s face. Except for an occasional flutter of his eyelids, Sherlock didn’t stir, didn’t even mumble like he so often did when asleep. He was as white as the proverbial sheet but at least the bloodstain on the provisional bandage hadn’t widened. The policeman – Fenton – had done a very decent job indeed and Mycroft made a mental note to personally thank him for what he had done. Maybe he could even nudge him towards a promotion. Fenton would make a fine sergeant. He would ask Lestrade for his assessment of the man’s overall abilities and prospects.

 _Inspector Lestrade_. Now here was a man worth looking into. What was his exact connection to Sherlock and why would he shelter him in his own house? While he would not claim to be familiar with the exact rules and regulations with regards to Bow Street and its – what was the word Fitzwilliam had used for Sherlock’s latest whim? Freelancers? No, _policing_. So, even if that’s what Sherlock was doing, policing on some sort of freelance basis, he was fairly certain that tending to injured civilian contacts in one’s own home exceeded even the most diligent police officer's duties by far. 

He leaned over and gently brushed one of Sherlock’s unruly curls out of his face.

“Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” he murmured. “Are things really that bad?”

He received no reply. He hadn’t expected one, either, and so he took one of Sherlock’s clammy hands in his and leaned back, closing his eyes. His thoughts returned to the inspector. A very handsome man, even when tired, although the tiredness had vanished for a short time when Wanderer had been presented to him. His dark eyes had lit up and he had looked devastatingly boyish for a moment. Much younger than Mycroft had originally thought him to be but the greying hair played a not insubstantial part in that misjudgement.

When deciding which horse to assign to him, Mycroft had remembered their brief encounter in the park and how easily Lestrade had handled his spirited mount and so had had no qualms of entrusting him with Wanderer whose exercises had indeed been shamefully neglected of late. Where had the inspector learnt to ride like that? There was the Bow Street Horse Patrol, yes, but Lestrade had a seat like a gentleman, not like that of a mere policeman (and Mycroft was fairly certain there were skilled horsemen amongst those, too), and he had handled Wanderer with both strength and gentleness.

And again Mycroft had been struck by the oddest sensation of having met him before, or if not him, then someone who resembled him closely. He would set Jem to it. His tiger had taken an instant liking to Lestrade, had even favoured him with a few friendly words and one of his rare smiles which was a miracle in itself as Jem harboured a hearty dislike for Bow Street, a remnant of a past spent in rather dubious company and unpleasant circumstances. Jem had ways of finding things out and Mycroft didn’t want to know how he went about achieving what he set out to achieve. One thing was certain, however: their very different backgrounds complemented each other very favourably and the day the half-starved urchin had crossed the then Viscount’s path had been a lucky day indeed. For both of them.

The carriage came to a halt and Mulroney himself opened the door for his master. Mycroft got out and two servants hurried along with a stretcher.

“Good thinking, Mulroney,” he said.

“Thank you, my lord,” the butler bowed. “I hope I have not overstepped my boundaries by having the footmen stand ready but judging from what your lordship had asked to prepare, and given the fact that Dr Millings has been sent for, I thought it wise to be prepared.”

“And how right you were.” He walked around the vehicle to instruct the footmen and watched as they carefully lifted Sherlock out of the carriage and onto the stretcher. “Take him to his room at once,” he ordered. “Has Dr Millings arrived yet?”

“He has, my lord, but he is not alone.”

“He isn’t?” Mycroft frowned. “I thought I had given explicit orders for this to be handled with the utmost discretion.”

“So I understand,” Mulroney bowed again. “He’s waiting in your lordship’s library, along with the gentleman he has brought along.”

“Who is this other gentleman?” He handed his hat to Mulroney and started to unbutton his overcoat.

“I understand he is a physician as well.”

“Is that so?” He shrugged out of his coat. “I trust the Viscount’s room has been prepared for him?”

“Certainly, your lordship. All is as instructed.”

“Very good. I will see the doctor and his companion now. Announce me, if you please.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mulroney handed the Earl’s hat and coat to a footman and made his way across the hallway in measured steps. When he reached the library, he opened the door and announced his master.

“The Right Honourable the Earl of Halsbury.” He bowed and Mycroft walked into the room.

“Dr Millings,” he greeted his physician. “Thank you for coming at such short notice. Much obliged.” He shook the doctor’s hand. “Gibson has informed you?”

The doctor nodded. “I understand there was an unfortunate incident in which the Viscount has been injured but the extent of his injuries has not yet been found out.”

“You understand correctly.” Mycroft turned towards the second man. “I believe we have not met yet,” he said politely. “I’m Halsbury.”

The other man’s eyes held an appraising look that Mycroft found both amusing and annoying. He was a short, sturdy looking individual dressed in sober black and grey. His neckcloth was tied into something resembling an American and his neatly cut sandy-coloured hair was combed back in a rather conservative style. He appeared to be in his early thirties, considerably younger than Millings, but there was an overall air of calm and confidence about him and he had a very firm handshake. Millings must have had his reasons for bringing him along, Mycroft decided; he had been the family’s physician for over twenty years and never did anything without purpose.

The man bowed with military precision.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” he said in a calm voice. “I’m John Watson. Dr John Watson.”


	11. The Earl is not unimpressed

“Dr Watson studied at Oxford, together with Francis, my eldest,” Dr Millings explained. “We met a while ago in Bath and when Dr Watson expressed his interest in setting up practice in London, we quickly came to an understanding.”

“I see,” nodded the Earl. Francis Millings had passed away a little over four years ago in a shipwreck on his way back from France, a tragedy that had very nearly broken the doctor.

“Dr Watson has been assisting me for nearly three months now and there’s reason to hope he will take over my practice when I retire. He’s a very capable physician, my lord. In addition, he used to be a military surgeon and judging from what your man was able to tell me, little enough though it was, a surgeon’s eyes might prove a valuable asset and I have therefore taken the liberty of bringing Dr Watson with me.”

“Very well. In that case, Dr Watson, I believe it’s time you meet your patient.” He indicated towards the door. “If you will please follow me.”

The physicians picked up their bags and followed the Earl to the chambers situated on the first floor. Halsbury reduced his long strides to a pace that was manageable for Dr Watson who walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on a cane.

“The Peninsula, Dr Watson?”

“Toulouse,” Watson replied. “1st Brigade.”

“You served under Major General Brisbane?”

“I did. You know him?”

“I had the opportunity to dine with him once.”

“I see. You served as well, then?”

“Indeed. 11th Hussars.”

They exchanged a few polite sentences about their respective military careers until they reached the door to the Viscount’s room. It was opened from within by a sleepy-eyed maid who visibly started when she saw the Earl, almost dropping the bundle of clothes she held in her arms.

“My lord,” she curtsied and rushed off, as if in a panic.

The room was lit by numerous candles but the patient’s bed was shielded from the light by a screen with only two candles sitting on the bedside cabinet. The Viscount lay on his back, dressed in a clean nightshirt, and appeared to be sleeping. It didn’t seem a very peaceful sleep, however. His face was pale and sweaty and his hands above the sheets clenched and unclenched restlessly.

Halsbury frowned but neither doctor seemed particularly worried. Millings gave an encouraging nod to Watson who gestured to one of the servants to remove the shade for enough light to fall on the patient to allow for a thorough examination. When all was as he needed it to be, he asked for a clean towel, set his bag down and approached the bed. He carefully pulled the sheet down and, with equal care, pushed the nightshirt up, covered the Viscount’s nakedness with the towel and began his examination by sweeping his gaze along the entire length of the patient’s body. With Millings’ help he lifted the Viscount’s torso up to check for additional wounds on the back and when none were found, they lowered him down again.

Watson removed the makeshift bandage with gentle hands and inspected the wound. From where he stood, it seemed to the Earl it was not one but two wounds, sitting close to each other, and Watson’s words confirmed this.

“Two stab wounds, right costal arch. At first glance it seems the top wound is shallow, the blade most likely having been blocked upon entry by the rib but the second one –,” he bent forward for an even closer look, “the second one is deeper and located near the liver.” When he began palpating the abdomen, the Viscount stirred uneasily but Watson continued, dividing his attention between his examination and the reactions it elicited. Millings joined his colleague to see for himself.

The Earl’s medical knowledge was basic at best. He knew what he had to know to tend to minor injuries or how to get through a common cold but other than that, he had never seen the necessity to occupy himself with the intricacies of human anatomy. He watched as the physicians hovered over his brother and listened to what they said, or rather: listened to what they did not say. Not only did he understand that Sherlock had possibly been more severely injured than originally assumed, but also did he make the entirely unexpected observation that his trusted personal physician was, if not exactly at a loss, but certainly a lot less confident than was his custom, and Halsbury made a mental note to himself to consider the idea of finding a new physician.

Watson, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what he was doing. When he finished examining Sherlock, he applied – swiftly and expertly – a new bandage, pulled the nightshirt down again, removed the towel and covered the patient with the sheet. Then he straightened and turned to look at Halsbury.

“My lord,” he began, “allow me to get straight to the point.”

“By all means, please do,” Halsbury encouraged.

“Your brother was stabbed three times. The first wound is barely more than a scratch; the blade most probably caught in his lordship’s coat and therefore didn’t cause much damage. The second one hit the eighth rib but slipped off the margin, so no major harm done there, either. The third one, however –,” he paused and pursed his lips, as if to debate with himself how to deliver the blow.

“Yes?”

“The blade has undoubtedly entered the abdomen, sir. As of now, I cannot tell you what the exact damage is and what to expect. My advice would be to keep him under close observation during the night and with your permission, I would like to return early tomorrow morning to conduct a second, more thorough examination under better lighting conditions.”

“Any predictions, Dr Watson?”

Watson shook his head. “I would have to guess and guessing goes against my principles as a physician. All I can say is, my lord, that your brother seems to enjoy a very robust health. His heartbeat is steady, as is his pulse. That may change, however, and he may develop a belated, injury-related shock. If that is the case, you must alert me immediately.” He fished in his pocket and produced a slim case from which he took a card. “This is my address. Please send for me at once if anything changes for the worse.”

The Earl studied the card. The address was located in at least thirty minutes driving distance.

“May I make a suggestion, Dr Watson?”

“My lord?”

“I am aware that your time is not at my disposal and I don’t wish to appear overbearing, but would you consider the possibility of spending the night here?”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose.

“This is merely a question. A hopeful wish, to be perfectly frank, of a concerned brother.”

Watson pursed his lips once more, then nodded.

“Very well, my lord. If it will put your mind at ease, I will stay.”

“Thank you, Dr Watson,” Halsbury said, sincere gratitude in his voice. “I am in your debt. I will have a room readied immediately and a footman will bring you whatever you need.”

“I have an overnight set in my bag,” Watson said with a small smile. “Old habit, I’m afraid. I will not be a burden to your hospitality.”

That settled, the Earl instructed a servant to get a room ready for Watson and offered the physicians some late night refreshments. Millings declined and said apologetically that he had made it his habit not to indulge himself after ten o’clock but Watson gratefully accepted a glass of claret.

“May I ask, my lord, who has looked after the Viscount upon the scene of the, uh, unfortunate encounter?”

“One of the policemen did. Was there anything amiss?”

“Quite the contrary. The man has saved his lordship’s life. The initial treatment he provided was exceptional.”

“That’s what my man said, too. Thank you for confirming it, Dr Watson.”

When a servant came to discreetly inform the Earl that the room next to the Viscount’s had been prepared for Dr Watson, the gentlemen rose. Watson and Millings shook hands, then Watson followed the footman to his room and Halsbury escorted Millings to the door.

“I hope your lordship will not think any less of me for bringing my young colleague,” Millings said, putting his hat on. “I believe I have reached an age where I no longer have to pretend being omniscient, and my experiences with stab wounds and the like are somewhat limited. I would have been able to provide adequate medical treatment but I must bow to Dr Watson’s superior knowledge of, well, let me call it ‘battle wounds’ for lack of a better turn of phrase.”

“Allow me to assure you, Dr Millings, that my opinion of you has not been lessened,” Halsbury said, not entirely truthful but he saw no point in hurting the physician’s professional pride. “It is a wise man indeed who knows when to consult a colleague and I should appreciate it very much if you found the time to come by at your earliest convenience to look after my brother.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Millings said with barely concealed relief. “With your permission, I will call on you at, say, eleven o’clock if that is not too early for your lordship’s convenience.”

“Not at all. Thank you, Dr Millings, and good night to you.” He sketched a bow and waited by the door until Millings had descended the short flight of steps, then made his way up to his own chambers, deep in thought.

 

The next morning, he went into his breakfast room at his usual early hour, dressed for his morning ride, and upon enquiring after his guest and his brother’s status was informed that Dr Watson was already seeing to the patient. He decided against walking upstairs again, having the distinct notion that the former military surgeon would not appreciate having him hover in the background while he examined his patient, and sat down for some coffee and toast after leaving instructions that Dr Watson was free to move about his house while he was his guest and was to be shown into his private rooms should he wish to speak with him, or join him for breakfast.

He was halfway through his newspaper when the door opened and Watson was announced. Halsbury rose.

“Dr Watson,” he said and made an inviting gesture towards the table. “If your time permits, will you join me for breakfast?”

“Thank you, my lord,” Watson replied and limped to the chair the footman was pulling back for him. He declined the coffee, asked for some tea instead and helped himself to some slices of ham and toast.

“Your brother is doing well,” he said in reply to the Earl’s unspoken question, buttering his toast. He took a bite, chewed, then added, “When I left him last night I feared I would have to operate on him today but if things are progressing the way they seem to be doing now, that won’t be necessary. I applied a drainage to help the body rid itself of old blood and bile –,” he interrupted himself. “Forgive me, my lord. These details are hardly appropriate to be discussed at a breakfast table.”

Halsbury made a dismissive gesture. “Never mind that, Dr Watson. I’m not of a very delicate disposition and I am eager to hear about my brother’s condition.”

“Well, the Viscount’s abdomen is tender to the touch and the wound site is bruised and slightly swollen. If I may venture a guess then I would say the liver has either been bruised or pierced. There is no need for alarm yet, my lord,” he added, reassuringly, when Halsbury stiffened. “I have found the liver to be an amazingly resilient organ and I have seen wounds that looked hopeless at first glance and yet, the patient lived with no remaining damage. His lordship’s heartbeat was as steady as it was yesterday, his pulse has improved and there is no sign of inflammation. It is as I told you, my lord. The policeman who has seen to his lordship has indeed saved his life. The wounds were meticulously cleaned and expertly bandaged, despite the less than optimal conditions and material.” He tasted the ham and made an appreciative sound. “That is very good meat.”

“Thank you,” the Earl replied automatically. “I shall pass your compliments on to my chef.” He reached for some fruit. “May I ask whether you intend to settle down in London, Dr Watson? Dr Millings hinted at the possibility of you taking over his practice.”

Watson nodded, chewing. “I am thinking about it. It is a very tempting offer and it is most generous of Dr Millings to consider me.”

“Not generous at all, Dr Watson. Your skills are undeniable and given the fact that you were acquainted with his son makes you a somewhat logical choice.”

“Thank you. I spent the year after my release from active duty in Bath and had begun making enquiries as soon as my health allowed but then I met Dr Millings, we started to talk and here I am.” He smiled.

“Indeed you are and I am very glad of it.” Halsbury inclined his head in a gesture of gratitude. “What do you propose now, Doctor? Should I take special precautions? Hire a nurse, maybe?”

Watson pursed his lips. It seemed to be an automatic thing, an expression of thought.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “When I examined his lordship I was assisted by one of your footmen, a very capable young man by the name of Will and a maid called Hannah. If you will allow me, I could instruct them how to look after his lordship. I will, of course, be visiting in regular intervals until his lordship regains full consciousness and Dr Millings will undoubtedly want to look after the patient as well.”

“But of course.” Halsbury rang for his butler. Mulroney appeared very shortly and upon his master’s enquiry about Will and Hannah replied, after giving it some thought, that both could be spared from their usual duties to look after his lordship’s brother as per the doctor’s instructions. If his lordship was willing to allow for some time – no unduly amount, he hastened to add – for Mulroney to consult with the housekeeper to make the necessary adjustments to the staff rotation, he would be more than happy to add his modest share to ensure the Viscount’s speedy recovery. Would his lordship like to see Will and Hannah now?

His lordship agreed that yes, he would indeed like that, and Mulroney bowed himself out of the room, only to reappear a few minutes later with a tall young man whose blond curls resisted his efforts to keep them under control, and an equally young woman who wore her brown hair neatly braided and tucked away under a bonnet.

Will bowed and Hannah curtsied.

“Dr Watson tells me you’ve done well in assisting him with my brother,” Halsbury said. “I’ve asked you to come here to thank you for that, and to inform you that you will continue to look after the Viscount until his lordship is released from the Doctor’s care. Mr Mulroney will adjust your schedules accordingly so you need not worry about your household chores. In all matters relating to the Viscount’s health, you will report directly to Dr Watson and you will take your orders from him until I say otherwise.” He looked at Watson. “Doctor?”

Watson’s face bore an expression that was hard to read. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “In that case I would like to return to the patient’s room and point out a few things to you that need to be taken care of. Once that is settled, I will return to my practice for the rest of the morning, with your lordship’s permission.”

“Certainly, Dr Watson. I do not wish to keep you from your patients.”

They rose and shook hands, then Watson ushered the two servants out of the room and Halsbury sat back down to finish his newspaper, found himself unable to fully concentrate on politics and economy and abandoned the idea altogether, finished his coffee and left for his morning ride, hoping some fresh air and a crisp gallop would help him get his thoughts back in order.

 

He returned two hours later, refreshed, and changed into his morning dress, a frock coat of an olive hue, exquisitely cut to accentuate his shoulders and slim waist, a discreetly patterned waistcoat, cravat arranged into an Irish, and light-coloured pantaloons. Polished half boots completed his appearance and Gibson stood back with a satisfied nod, pleased with his work.

“Am I fit to be released into the world now, Gibson?” Halsbury asked, grinning, and Gibson returned the grin. With no-one in sight or within hearing distance, master and valet fell back into their old and less formal ways. Gibson had been his personal man-servant during his years of military service where certain rules of polite society had been dropped for the sake of speed and efficiency, and although Gibson could never hope to achieve the superior knowledge of Mr Brummell’s valet – the great Robinson –, Halsbury didn’t mind for he placed his priorities elsewhere. He didn’t aspire to become a tulip of fashion, and yet the combination of excellent tailoring, a distinct sense for elegance and simplicity and a physique that was easy to dress and allowed him to display the current fashion to his advantage put his appearance above criticism. In fact, Brummell had once complimented him on the arrangement of his neckcloth; not that Halsbury placed too much importance on the Beau’s approval but it had been noted by those who did.

And so, with not only the Beau’s but also his valet’s approval of his appearance, the Earl walked over to his brother’s room only to find him fast asleep, with Hannah sitting in the opposite corner, busying herself with some needlework. She rose and curtsied when Halsbury entered the room, murmuring a greeting, but he gestured for her to sit down again which she did, eyes shyly cast down. Sherlock was still pale, as expected, but his chest rose and fell in regular intervals, his hands resting peacefully above the blanket. Seeing there was nothing to be done, he quietly retreated, closed the door behind himself and made his way downstairs where he was informed by Mulroney that Inspector Lestrade was waiting for him in the library.

“Thank you, Mulroney,” he said, holding out his hand for the letters that had arrived and glanced through them on his way to the library.

Lestrade was standing by one of the bookshelves, a non-descript bundle by his feet, inspecting the rows of leather-bound volumes, and upon hearing Halsbury enter he turned around. He was dressed in what Halsbury suspected were his work clothes, an unbecoming, heavy material in unflattering shades of brown, but there was not a speck of dust on the coat nor on the trousers and while it was unlikely one could see one’s reflection in the Inspector’s heavy boots, they were polished and well maintained. The shades beneath the Inspector’s dark eyes had almost vanished and he was clean-shaven, handsome despite his horrid clothes.

He bowed.

“My lord,” he said. “I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time but I would like enquire after the Viscount’s health before I start my rounds.”

“Inspector,” Halsbury replied and held out his hand. Lestrade took it and they shook. “I thought I had made myself clear when I said you would be welcome to enquire after my brother any time you wished to do so.”

“You did, my lord,” Lestrade said with a smile that extended into his eyes. “And yet, I don't wish to impose myself.”

“You most certainly don’t.” He gestured towards an armchair. “Please, sit. Would you care for some refreshments?”

“Thank you but I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I’ve come to return some of the Viscount’s possessions that were left at my house.” He bent and picked up the bundle. “His lordship’s overcoat, coat and boots,” he explained. “I’m afraid his shirt and waistcoat were ruined beyond saving and I had both burnt, but maybe the coats can be saved or at least salvaged to a certain extent and there’s nothing wrong with the boots.”

“Thank you. I will have my valet look at them. Has your house been restored to order, and have you been able to sleep well after last night’s events?”

“Yes to both, my lord, with the help of my constable. That is, I mean –,” he broke off, checked himself and continued with a rueful grin, “Well, it seems I haven’t slept it all off yet. What I meant to say was, my constable helped me with my house and I slept reasonably well.”

“I had not assumed otherwise,” Halsbury said with a smile of his own. “Let’s have a look how the patient is faring, shall we? He was asleep when I saw him a few minutes ago but maybe he has woken up.”

He called for a maid to collect the bundle with the Viscount’s clothes, asking her to deliver it to Gibson, and led Lestrade upstairs.

Sherlock was still asleep but Lestrade’s relief at seeing him in a stable condition and at relative ease was unmistakable. He ventured close enough to lay the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead, as if to check his temperature, and murmured something in a soft voice. Halsbury didn’t understand his words but he caught ‘lad’ and ‘please come back’.

Just what was the exact nature of their relationship?

“When you have a little more time at your disposal, Inspector,” Halsbury said when Lestrade put his overcoat back on, “I should very much like to meet you for dinner. Nothing formal,” he added when Lestrade’s eyes widened in astonishment, “I was thinking about a table at White’s, maybe.”

“White’s, my lord? They will never let me inside unless it’s on Bow Street business, and even then –,” he made a vague gesture and Halsbury smiled.

“They will let you inside when you present them with this.” He produced one of his cards, walked over to a small desk, reached for a quill and scribbled something on it. “Let me know when you can make yourself available and I will have everything else arranged. I would much appreciate hearing all that’s happened, and I have a suggestion to make as well.”

“Oh?”

“It’s to do with Wanderer,” Halsbury said, his smile widening. “I had an idea this morning that I should very much like to discuss with you.”

“Oh!” Lestrade’s eyes lit up. “I will send word as quickly as I can, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

A discreet cough at the door made him turn around.

“Yes, Mulroney?”

“Dr Millings to see you, my lord, and –,” his eyes darted to the inspector, conveying the message that the second visitor’s name should not be disclosed in the presence of a stranger but Halsbury nodded impatiently.

“Yes?”

Mulroney visibly collected himself, his uneasiness at being requested to act against his sense of propriety clearly visible. “Lady Harcourt,” he stiffly said.

“Well, show them in. Yes, both of them, if you please.” He looked at Lestrade. “Before I forget, please send Constable Fenton to see me. I would like to personally thank him for all that he’s done for my brother. I’ve been given to understand that without his expert treatment, the Viscount would very likely not have survived the night.”

“I will send him here as soon as I see him, my lord.”

He put on his hat and Halsbury extended his hand.

“Thank you for coming by, Inspector.”

“Thank you for letting me see the Viscount, my lord.”

He turned to leave when Dr Millings and Lady Harcourt were announced.

Dr Millings was dressed in his usual blacks and greys but Lady Harcourt’s three-quarter length pelisse was of a vibrant shade of blue. A matching pair of half-boots peeked out from underneath a moderately embellished hemline and her bonnet was ornamented with a light blue ribbon and white plumes.

“Lord Halsbury,” she said, walking up to him with both her hands outstretched. “I just heard what happened. Is it true? Is your brother alright?” She then realised he was not alone and her eyes widened when they fell on Lestrade. The look of astonishment was gone as quickly as it had appeared and she acknowledged the inspector’s presence with a bow of her head.

“Lady Harcourt, Dr Millings,” the Earl greeted the newcomers. “Allow me to introduce Detective Inspector Lestrade of Bow Street. It is because of him and his quick grasp of the situation that my brother is still alive. Inspector, the right honourable the Viscountess Harcourt, Dr Millings.”

“So it was you who saw to the Viscount’s wounds, wasn’t it?” Millings said, shaking hands with the inspector.

“I’m afraid not. It was my constable who looked after his lordship.” He bowed to Lady Harcourt. “Madam, your most obedient servant.”

They exchanged a few polite sentences, then Lestrade took his leave. Millings asked for permission to see the patient without further ado and when permission was granted, he left for the Viscount’s room at once. However, Mulroney’s sense of what was right had been ruffled enough for one morning and although he knew perfectly well who Millings was and that the doctor needed neither directions nor guidance around the Earl’s house, he instructed a footman to lead the way, if only for appearance’s sake and for his own peace of mind.

Halsbury took one of Lady Harcourt’s hands in his and pressed a kiss to it.

“We had an appointment this morning, had we not?” he asked ruefully. “I am dreadfully sorry, my dear, but it has slipped my mind entirely.”

She gave his hand a little squeeze. “Don’t be absurd, Mycroft. Sherlock was injured. Of course you have other things on your mind than taking a stroll with me.”

“Thank you.” A quick glance in the direction of the door ensured him they were alone, and he bent down to kiss her cheek. She smelled faintly of freesia and he stole a second kiss, this time from her lips. “I will make it up to you,” he promised.

“I know you will,” she smiled and touched her hand to his cheek but withdrew it when the butler’s footsteps were approaching.

“Ah, Mulroney,” Halsbury said. “Might I trouble you for a glass of ratafia for Lady Harcourt? Will you take ratafia or would you prefer something else?” he asked her.

“Ratafia is fine,” Lady Harcourt said, untying her bonnet and handing it to Mulroney who received it with a stiff bow, and her pelisse, too. She looked after him as he stalked out of the library, removed her gloves and chuckled. “He disapproves of me calling on you unattended. So very much not the thing. Scandalous, actually.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you disapprove, too?”

He took her arm and led her towards a settee. She gracefully sank down on it.

“Not at all. I highly approve of a woman who takes matters into her own hands instead of waiting for a man to come along and rescue her.”

“You do?”

“I find the idea of the future Lady Halsbury to be a simpering damsel revolting. We had agreed to take a walk, I neglected to meet you, you come to me and scold me for it.”

“You enjoy being scolded?” Her eyes danced and he reached for her hand again. He kissed her palm.

“I’m not sure about that,” he murmured against her skin. “But as for taking matters into your hands…”

“My lord!” She removed her hand and lightly slapped his wrist, but the laughter remained in her eyes. “For shame!”

She folded her hands primly in her lap and fixed her eyes on the vase sitting above the fireplace. From the way her brow creased, he could tell something was on her mind and so he leaned back, watching her, and waited.

“Mycroft, that inspector,” she suddenly said and turned to face him.

“Yes? What of him?”

“He looks exactly like the Viscomte de Brienne, wouldn’t you agree?”

He sat up and stared at her.

“By God, you’re right!”

How could he have missed it?


	12. Planning for the Viscount's recovery

They looked at each other.

“Intriguing,” Anthea remarked. “I’ve heard rumours but I didn’t know what to make of them. People talk a lot, and French aristocrats are such good gossip.”

Mycroft huffed. “Foreigners have always provided a welcome distraction from one’s own problems.”

“Add some French flavour and tongues will wag a little faster. My mother knew the Viscomtesse fairly well but not well enough to be taken into confidence, and she never cared for idle gossip. Neither do I.”

“You know what,” Mycroft said, tapping a finger to his lips, “I will indeed set Jem to find out about this, at least for a start.”

“Your tiger?”

“The very same. He has a way of finding things out and has access to a very different set of sources. I am certain he will provide me with an excellent place to start. And what’s more,” he added with a chuckle, “I believe Jem has taken a liking towards the inspector. Not only have I seen him exchange a few words with him, only this morning he said Lestrade had proper bottom if ever he’s seen one.”

A footman appeared with the requested Ratafia. Anthea waited for the young man to place the decanter and a glass on the small table next to the settee and when he had vanished, Mycroft rose to pour a glass for her.

She accepted it, took a sip and said in reply to Mycroft’s last remark, “I am not sure I want to know what exactly he was referring to.”

“I do believe he was referring to his horsemanship.”

“I should hope so. But the detective is a handsome man indeed.”

“He is,” Mycroft agreed. “Take him out of his drab clothes and he will be rather striking.”

“I believe he would be,” she said dryly.

“Yes, I – oh.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “My dear Anthea, I am shocked.”

“I’m not the one who wants to take him out of his drab clothes.”

“You know exactly what I meant.”

“I think I do.”

“Anthea, really.”

“Mycroft, really,” she teased him, her eyes dancing.

He looked into her laughing eyes, and, unable to resist temptation, bent down and kissed the curve of her neck. The fresh and somewhat spicy Freesia perfume she had dabbed on was quickly becoming one of his favourites. It suited Anthea who was a breath of fresh air amidst the many rules and regulations his life, privileged though it was, subjected him to. Her skin took on a soft shade of pink and he nuzzled the nape of her neck, surprised at her reaction and most of all at himself.

Until very recently, both his respect for her status as his friend’s widow and his own preference that ran in quite a different direction had kept him from noticing just how lovely she had become. But then he had kissed her and much to his surprise had not only liked it but found himself longing for more. And that was a riddle he hadn’t been able to solve because until that moment, a woman’s touch had not been something he had ever craved. Sure, he had always liked her and her quick wit and sharp observational skills had provided most valuable insight on more than one occasion. She heard and saw things that tended to remain hidden from a man’s ears and eyes, things thoughtlessly said while boasting before a flock of wide-eyed female admirers, careless gestures of approval or disapproval one did not expect a mere woman to notice. But she had always been Andrew’s wife and Freddy’s mother to him and he had not expected that to ever change.

With his injured brother upstairs and the family’s physician in attendance, however, this was not the moment to further explore this newly awakened interest and he sat down next to her, not close enough to raise eyebrows or start whispers in his own home, but close enough to still smell her perfume.

“Will you tell me about Sherlock?” she asked, her cheeks still becomingly flushed. “How bad is it really?”

He accepted the change of subject. “He has sustained three stab wounds, two of which have not caused any major damage, from what I understand, but the third blade has entered the abdomen.”

Anthea drew a sharp breath and for a fleeting second Mycroft was concerned whether he should have mentioned that particular detail. Stab wounds were hardly a subject to be discussed in the presence of ladies but as Anthea showed no signs of falling into a fit of the vapours, he continued.

“Dr Watson, a very capable young colleague of Dr Millings, is cautiously optimistic. Had Sherlock been found under different circumstances or by somebody other than that cold-blooded policeman, it is unlikely he would have survived. Fate, it would seem, has once more smiled upon my brother.”

“Do you have information on what exactly has happened?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “He somehow got himself involved in, uh, a bout of fisticuffs at a gaming hell.”

“Oh no!” Anthea pressed a hand to her mouth. “Why does he keep frequenting these horrid places?”

“Because he cannot resist proving he’s right,” Mycroft stated. “You know how he is. It’s not the thrill of gaming that fascinates him. It’s the systematics behind it all, the principles of probabilities and so forth.”

“Which is something that you stay away from, of course.” She threw him a challenging look.

“Something I have learnt to stay away from, yes,” he corrected her. “I wasn’t judging Sherlock, Anthea. I know the siren call of cards and dice all too well.”

“As did Andrew.” She stared into the distance for a moment. Mycroft didn’t need to ask what she was thinking of and kept silent. Her late husband had been an enthusiastic card player with just enough self-restraint to walk away from the gaming tables when he realised luck was turning too far away from him, and not a moment sooner.

Her glance back in time ended on a small sigh and when she raised her eyes back to Mycroft’s face, he was startled to find them unnaturally bright. Before he had the chance to say anything, however, she smiled and the moment was gone, and he was heartily glad of it. For all that he was used to dealing with challenging situations and touchy topics, Anthea’s grief over the loss of her husband was something he found himself unable to deal with, for he himself still felt the loss of his friend. It had dimmed to a manageable degree but there were times it bore down on him, too. It had only been two years, after all.

“What do you intend to do next?” she asked. “Will you keep Sherlock here until he is fully recovered?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I think I’d rather remove him into the country. It’ll be quieter there with less… distractions.”

“What, to Halsbury Estate?”

“Good Lord, no. He would freeze to death there.” Halsbury Estate, the family’s ancestral home, was a massive, draughty monstrosity of a house that the current Earl hardly ever visited. “I was thinking of Chestnut Hall.”

“Oh, of course. Yes, that is a very good idea. Spring will be here soon and Chestnut Hall has such lovely gardens. It will do Sherlock a world of good.”

“I hope so, and I am glad you agree. Dare I hope you will visit me while I will be tending to my brother’s needs?”

“Mycroft,” it came out a little hesitantly, “I really can’t –”

“You will of course travel in the company of Ms Saunders, and you are welcome to bring Freddy too,” he said in reply to the unspoken question. “I would not have it any other way. In addition, I intend to send for Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock’s old nurse?”

“The very same. I am surprised you remember her name.”

“I remember you telling me she is the only one who has ever been able to hold your brother in check.”

“She is indeed.” A smile flickered across his face. “She may look frail, but Martha Hudson is made of some very stern stuff. Her husband passed away under rather dubious circumstances some four years ago, I believe, and Sherlock has made it a point to provide for her ever since. Seeing her will hopefully take some of the indignities away that staying under my roof will inflict on him.”

“Surely it cannot be that bad.”

“Oh, but I am afraid it is. The last time we spoke we did not part on very amicable terms.”

She lightly touched his arm. “He will come around. He loves you, you know.”

“Does he? Sometimes I am not so sure.”

“It’s not the Holmes way to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve,” she said. “I am fairly certain that you resemble each other in that just like you resemble each other in so many other ways. But Mycroft, you have not mentioned your mother with one syllable. Pray do not tell me you intend to keep this from her.”

“That is exactly what I intend to do. For now, at least. Oh, don’t look at me like that, dearest,” he said lightly, “my mother is travelling Italy with her cousin. Any letter sent to her will take weeks and who knows what will happen over the next few days. If I write to her today, with what little I know, she would be unnecessarily alarmed and I have no doubt she will pack her bags and return to London at once. I promise to send a messenger if Sherlock’s condition worsens over the next few days but if he remains stable, I see no reason to upset her. She is beginning to enjoy life again, you see, and reading about Sherlock getting into yet another scrape would only throw her back to where I do not want to see her again.”

A line appeared between Anthea’s eyebrows and she shook her head. “I understand what you are saying and yet, she’s his mother and this is hardly another scrape. Sherlock has been seriously injured. If it were Freddy, I would want to know. She must know about this, Mycroft. You cannot keep something like that from her. It would be wrong.”

She was right, of course. He sighed. “Alright. I will write to her as soon as I have spoken with Dr Millings. There. Better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” The look of disapproval disappeared from her face.

He took her hand and kissed it. “Will you come and visit me at Chestnut Hall, Anthea?” he repeated his invitation. “I assure you your reputation will not be put at risk.”

“With Freddy around, there will be little to no opportunity to try and do anything improper,” she chuckled. “Very well, Mycroft, if you insist.”

“I do indeed. Most fervently.”

“How could I possibly say no to you insisting most fervently?”

“You cannot.”

She pressed his hand. “Freddy will be overjoyed to spend time at Uncle ‘croft’s country home. Will you take him for rides in the park?”

“Of course I will. Would you prefer to send for his pony or do you trust Larkin to choose for him? Your father plans for him to change from pony to horse some time this summer, yes?”

“He does. I received a letter only yesterday, telling me he’s found just the right horse for Freddy to get started. He plans to present it to him as a late birthday gift during our stay in July.”

“Then I will not take this privilege away from him. Will you have the pony brought to the Hall?”

“As soon as you let me know when you’re ready to receive us.”

“Good. Then I shall –” A knock on the door interrupted him. “Yes?”

The door opened and a footman appeared.

“Dr Millings, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft rose. “Send him in.”

The man bowed and stepped aside to let Dr Millings in. The physician’s face bore an expression of obvious relief and when Mycroft made an encouraging gesture for him to speak despite Anthea’s presence, announced in the voice of one glad to be the bearer of happy tidings: “His lordship’s brother has regained consciousness.” He executed a neat bow. “His heartbeat is steady and although his temperature is slightly raised, there is no sign of a fever. His eyes are clear and focussed and he has been able to answer my questions coherently.”

“That is very good news,” Mycroft said, feeling a weight drop off his shoulder. “Thank you very much indeed, Dr Millings. May I see him?”

“You certainly may but I warn you, he is drifting in and out of sleep.”

“I promise I will not wake him if I find him sleeping. I would merely like to see for myself.”

“Of course. May I speak with your cook before I leave, sir? I should like to instruct her on his lordship’s dietary requirements for the next days.”

“Certainly. I will ask Mulroney to arrange for you to see her.”

“I believe this is my cue,” Anthea said, rising from the settee. “I do not wish to delay you, my lord. You will want to see your brother and not waste any more time on polite conversation.”

“You never delay me, Lady Harcourt,” Mycroft replied. “Time spent in your presence is never a waste. But I thank you for granting me leave to look after the patient. It is indeed most appreciated.” He turned to Millings. “May I ask you to wait for me while I escort Lady Harcourt outside? There are a few things I should like to discuss with you.”

“With pleasure, my lord.”

“Please, sit. I will be with you shortly. Will you take some Madeira or a glass of Sherry, Dr Millings?”

“A glass of Madeira would be most welcome,” the doctor replied, grateful.

Mycroft rang for the footman. “Ah, Robson. Where has Philips wandered off to?”

“Mr Mulroney has requested to see him, sir.”

“Very well. Some Madeira for Dr Millings, please, and make sure Lady Harcourt’s curricle is ready for her. And tell Mr Mulroney that Dr Millings will need to speak with Mrs Blakely.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Robson bowed and left the library and while they waited for Anthea’s curricle to draw up before the house, Millings enquired after her mother who had consulted him during her last stay in London. Anthea assured him that her mother was in excellent health and was looking forward to celebrating her birthday in London where she would be arriving at the end of April. A few more polite sentences were exchanged and when Robson reappeared to announce the arrival of my lady’s curricle, she took her leave and Mycroft returned to the library where Millings sat in one of the armchairs.

“Thank you for waiting, Dr Millings.” Mycroft took a seat in the opposite chair. “I hope I am not keeping you from your other patients?”

“I have made sufficient time for you and your brother, my lord. I expected you to impatient for answers.”

“Indeed I am. But first of all, allow me to apologise to you, Dr Millings. I am afraid I was a little curt last night and may have created the impression that I valued your colleague’s opinion over yours. That is not the case, let me assure you.”

“There is no need to apologise, my lord. You were greatly worried about your brother and Dr Watson, a military doctor and a surgeon as well provided answers quicker than I could have. It was only natural you would turn to him instead of me.” He swirled the wine in its glass. “Personally, I regarded it as yet another proof that Dr Watson will be a worthy successor.”

“Stop talking about successor and retirement, Doctor. You make it sound as if you were an old man which plainly, you are not.”

“That is very kind of you to say but I find it is better to plan ahead than to one day wake up and realise one is no longer fit to provide the level of service one has provided all of one’s life. I am still perfectly able to look after my patients and offer the treatment they require, but the medical field is ever changing and Dr Watson knows methods of treatment I have never heard of. Why be stubborn?”

Mycroft looked at him, rueful for last night’s less than friendly thoughts towards his trusted physician when, yes, he had indeed doubted the man’s abilities.

“But now I am interested in your opinion,” he said. “My brother was stable when you left him, you said, and he was able to answer your questions. Does he remember what happened to him?”

“I did not ask for details, my lord. I merely asked him to tell me his name, address and date of birth, and whether he recognised his surroundings and what may have brought him here. He provided all of the requested answers, recognised the room to be one of your guest rooms and remembered being in a fight. Answering my questions tired him, however, and I thought it wise to let it go at that point. I then proceeded to check his wounds but Dr Watson has taken excellent care of your brother. His heartbeat was steady, his pulse a little quicker than it should be but not alarmingly so and although his skin felt warm to the touch, he is not feverish. It is too early to predict anything but I will not hesitate to tell you that I share my colleague’s optimism, my lord.”

“And I am grateful to hear it, Dr Millings. I intend to write to my mother to inform her of Sherlock’s accident. May I tell her that you are optimistic?”

Millings shook his head. “I would advise against it, my lord. Why don’t you wait another two or three days until we know more? Although I do not seriously expect it we do not know yet whether or not the Viscount will develop a fever. Why rush a letter to her ladyship?”

“Thank you, Dr Millings. I will gladly take your advice. Lady Harcourt was most insistent I write to my mother immediately.”

“Of course she would be. Lady Harcourt is a mother, too, and she is perfectly right that a mother should be informed if her child has taken ill. But I see no need for unduly haste.”

“Neither do I. Furthermore, I was thinking of taking Sherlock to Chestnut Hall as soon as he is stable enough for transport. Would you be agreeable to that?”

“Most definitely! The clean country air and the peace and quiet will do him good. He will be heartily bored after a while but that will be a good indicator of his recovery.” The doctor permitted himself the luxury of a soft chuckle and Mycroft couldn’t suppress a grin.

“I will send him back to London the moment his feeling of utter boredom reaches a level at which he starts putting bullets into the tapestry.”

“He does that?” Millings asked interestedly.

“He does, on occasion. Either the fabric wasn’t to his liking, or a fly on the wall annoyed him, or he had the urge to find out whether our grandfather’s duelling pistols were as precise as the old man had always claimed them to be.”

“Dear me. In that case, my lord, I suggest you pay particular attention to the frequency with which your brother expresses his boredom.” He finished his glass of Madeira and set it back on the table. “But yes, do take him to the country as soon as he is stable enough. With your permission, I will tell Dr Watson about your plans so he, too, is informed and can advise you as soon as your brother is fit for transport.”

“Much obliged. May I see him now?”

“Certainly. If you don’t mind I shall go and seek out Mrs Blakely while you speak with your brother.”

Mycroft did not mind and as Mulroney had notified the cook of the doctor’s wish to speak with her, this worthy individual awaited Millings in the housekeeper’s office while Mycroft made his way upstairs to see for himself how his brother was doing.

 

The curtains in Sherlock’s room were half-closed, letting some of the early April sun in, but a screen shielded the patient from direct sunlight and from the fresh air, too. When Mycroft entered, Will was in the process of shutting the window in the far corner of the room.

“Good morning, sir,” he said in a low voice when he was done and bowed. “Dr Millings had ordered for us to open the windows but it was getting a little chilly in here, begging your pardon.”

“That’s quite alright, thank you, Will. How is my brother?”

“You may ask him yourself, Mycroft,” came a weak but unmistakably irritated voice from the direction of the bed. “I am not dead, you know.”

“Believe it or not, brother dear, but I am glad to hear it.”

Mycroft stepped around the screen and looked at his brother who was squinting up at him. Sherlock was still pale and obviously tired but the displeased look with which he regarded his older brother was a more than welcome sight after the past night’s worries.

“How are you feeling, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged and winced with the sudden movement. “I was stabbed. How do you think I should feel? Devilishly tired, too.”

“You were probably given some Laudanum. Are you in pain?”

“Only when I move. Or breathe. Who was the quack looking after me this morning?”

“That was Dr Watson.”

“And who the hell is Dr Watson?”

“He is working with Millings and from what I understand will be taking over the practice once Millings retires.”

“Good God. Isn’t he a bit young to be a doctor?”

“He studied with Millings’ eldest so I reckon he must be around thirty. He served under Brisbane, if that name means anything to you.”

Sherlock directed an incredulous stare towards his brother. “Are you in all seriousness telling me you let a sawbones near me? Why, thank you very much for that.”

“Well, you are still alive, are you not?” Mycroft said, a trifle irritated. “Watson seemed very competent to me.”

“Since when have you become a medical expert?” Sherlock managed a snort. “How long will I have to remain here?”

“For as long as Millings and Watson think it necessary. Don’t worry,” he raised his hand when Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, “I have sent for your valet to bring you everything you need and everything he thinks necessary while you are my guest.”

“That’s what I am? Your guest?”

“Well, you don’t live here permanently, do you? That would make you my guest by all common standards. Rest assured, however, that this room here is never given to anyone but you. In case you were wondering who last slept in this bed,” he added with a malicious little smile. “Anyway, your man – Tanner, right? – should arrive shortly and will relieve you of the inconvenience of wearing one of my nightshirts.”

“What?” Sherlock raised his arm and looked at the offending shirtsleeve. “This is one of yours?”

There was a look of such undisguised horror on his face that Mycroft had to stifle a grin. “Don’t work yourself into a frenzy, brother, it’s been washed and starched. It will not delay your recovery.”

One side of Sherlock’s mouth involuntarily curled up. “It won’t be as bad as that.”

“I should hope not,” Mycroft said with raised eyebrows. “Otherwise I will have to let the laundry maid go.”

“You do that.” He closed his eyes but cracked one open again. “I guess I should thank you.”

“You should thank Inspector Lestrade and his team. Not only did his policemen pick you up and deliver you to his house, but the good inspector himself was quick-witted enough to come to me as soon as he had ensured himself that you were still alive and well enough to be left alone for a short while.”

Sherlock opened both eyes. “Lestrade, huh?” He blinked. “Good man. Now go, Mycroft, and let me sleep. I will send for you if I feel the need for your company.”

“Too kind. Will and Hannah are at your disposal if you need anything.” He put his hand over Sherlock’s and pressed it lightly. “Rest now, little brother.”

An unintelligible grunt was his answer. He smiled, grateful for the ungrateful sound that told him that Sherlock, despite his drug-induced tiredness and the discomfort his injuries subjected him to, was already strong enough to be his disagreeable self.

He left the sickroom and walked straight into his study to sort through his post and to draft a letter to their mother. He would not send this first draft away but experience had shown him it was not wise to send anything but the most carefully polished message to the Dowager Countess, especially where her youngest son was concerned. It was as he had told Anthea: their mother was slowly beginning to enjoy life again but she was still fragile after all that had happened and Mycroft wished for nothing less than to unnecessarily alarm her. He would follow Millings’ advice and not post a letter before two or three days had passed and Sherlock’s condition was more certain.

When he was finished writing, he put the letter into one of the desk’s drawers so it wouldn’t be picked up and posted by mistake, rang for his secretary and reached for the first document on the pile of letters that awaited his reply.

 

 


	13. A mutually beneficial arrangement and a new friend

Lestrade stood before White’s and eyed the main entrance to the exclusive gentlemen’s club with a sinking heart. The door seemed to glare at him, now that he stood before it as a private person and not in his official Bow Street capacity. He had donned his best evening dress, well, his only evening dress, truth be told, and it consisted of pale breeches (regrettably leaning towards a more yellowish hue rather than the more fashionable biscuit), white stockings, a dark brown tailcoat and a discreetly patterned waistcoat. He had tied his neckcloth with the utmost care and without wasting time nor effort on intricate folds and designs, only too well aware of the fact that he didn’t possess enough spares in case he wouldn’t get it right at once, and try again and again he would have had to. His shoes were polished to shine, not a speck of dust marred his coat or his overcoat, his fingernails were impeccably clean and he had treated himself to a close shave… and yet, Lestrade knew he would be found lacking. Still here he was, about to enjoy a private dinner with one of the club’s most influential members.

Taking a deep breath, he walked up the short flight of stairs and knocked. The door was opened by a tall individual whose cool gaze swept over Lestrade’s respectable but utterly unfashionable appearance.

“Yes?” His voice was as expressionless as his face.

“Good evening,” Lestrade said. “I’m here to see the Earl of Halsbury.”

“Is his lordship expecting you?”

“I was invited.” He fished in his pocket for the Earl’s card, found it and handed it, along with one of his own, to the footman who studied Lestrade’s card with a faint look of disapproval. The instant he recognised the Earl’s card, however, the disapproval miraculously vanished from his features. He opened the door and stepped aside to let Lestrade in.

“Welcome, Inspector. May I ask you to please wait over there while I send for a man to inform his lordship of your arrival.”

He gestured towards a seating area and snapped his fingers for a younger servant to take Lestrade’s coat. When Lestrade was seated, another footman approached him to offer refreshments. He accepted a glass of brandy and, while waiting to be summoned into the members’ area, studied the coming and going of all kinds of members of the _ton_ , a world of which he only ever saw the less glamorous side. The nobility tended to settle things amongst themselves, shrouding unpleasant happenings behind a near impenetrable veil of wealth, influence and a whole lot of attitude. The few occasions on which his path had crossed with that of a noble family, one of their members had met an untimely death under circumstances that had required Bow Street involvement and with two exceptions he had never met with much cooperation.

But he wasn’t here on Bow Street business. He was going to have dinner with Holmes’ brother and he was going to enjoy himself. It wasn’t every day that he had time to sit down for a proper meal, let alone in such an elegant atmosphere. He was curious to hear what the Earl wanted to discuss with him, a _proposal regarding Wanderer_ or so he had said, and Lestrade had permitted himself the luxury of daydreaming about being allowed to exercise the beautiful horse. Before he had moved to London, he had been in the saddle every day, exercising or training the horses his brother had broken in before they were offered for sale. He had never regretted his decision to leave but he missed the horses. When he had signed up with Bow Street shortly after his arrival, he had briefly toyed with the idea of joining the horse patrol but had eventually decided against it and had never regretted that decision either. He liked his work and considered each successfully closed case a personal triumph, but he snatched at each and every opportunity to work with horses.

Would the Earl try to quiz him about his brother? While Lestrade was perfectly willing to tell him about how valuable Holmes’ contribution to on-going police investigations were, he was less willing to tell him about the exact circumstances under which he had met the Viscount and he would certainly not breathe a word about how Holmes had stranded on his doorstep one night, drunk as a wheelbarrow and maundering about his brother hating him. Hopefully the Earl would be true to his word about not wanting him to betray his brother’s trust.

“Inspector?”

A young footman appeared before him – yet another one, and that one even younger than the one who had taken his coat. Was that a not-so-subtle sign that he wasn’t deemed worthy being waited upon by older and more experienced staff?

“Yes?”

“His lordship awaits you. Would you please follow me?”

“Certainly.”

The footman led him upstairs into one of the private dining rooms. They passed various gentlemen on the way who either completely ignored Lestrade or took his appearance in with raised eyebrows, some even with raised quizzing glasses. However, his life as a Bow Street detective had made him indifferent to being stared at and so he ignored the looks he was given and met only the most openly derisive stares with a slightly mocking bow.

He was led into a room that was generously lit and about twice the size of his own modest living room. The Earl of Halsbury, who had been standing with his back to the door, looking out of the window, turned around when Lestrade was announced. He crossed the room and greeted Lestrade with an outstretched hand.

“Good evening, Inspector,” he said. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“Good evening, your lordship,” Lestrade replied, took the Earl’s hand and shook it. “It is I who has to thank you for inviting me.”

“Not at all.” He gestured towards the table. “Please, sit. Were you offered a refreshment upon your arrival?” He sat down and signalled for a liveried footman to bring a selection of wines.

“I had a glass of brandy, thank you.”

“Was it to your liking?”

“Very much so.” He smiled. “Much better than what I am used to.”

“I am pleased to hear it. Will you take wine with dinner or would you prefer brandy?”

“Wine, please. It is not often that I get to enjoy a good wine.”

And the wine was very good, dry but soft, lean yet laden with hints of mineral, earth and cherries, and Lestrade suppressed a sigh. He swirled the wine in his glass and met the Earl’s slightly amused eyes.

“Agreeable, Inspector?”

“Very much so, your lordship. In fact, I haven’t tasted wine this good since my father passed away.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

They fell silent while the soup was served and the side dishes placed on the table, sticking to small talk revolving around various political topics of a non-committal nature and from there moved on to the sporting life. By the time the main course was served, consisting of beef, poultry, a selection of vegetables such as French beans, cauliflower and peas and sauces to choose from, all tension had left Lestrade and he found himself discussing horseflesh with the Earl of Halsbury in the most amicable way.

The Earl was a pleasant person to talk to. He easily covered a variety of topics, tactfully avoiding subjects that would put too much emphasis on their different social standing, yet refrained from assuming Lestrade was not intelligent enough to follow the current political developments or not educated enough to read the newspapers. He was good to his word, too, just as Lestrade had hoped, and did not ask about how his brother and Lestrade had met, merely thanked him for keeping the Viscount’s mind busy and thus keeping him out of trouble, “for nothing provokes him more than intellectual stagnation. Give him a riddle to sink his teeth into and less joyous pastimes will lose their allure.”

“So I have noticed, and he is very good at sinking his teeth into riddles. And the answers he comes up with leave us baffled more often than not. My men do proper police work, my lord, they thoroughly search the site of each crime and make sure witnesses are being talked to instead of intimidated and yet, your brother sees things I’ve never noticed. He finds the most amazing clues in the tiniest of details. His mind is of a sharpness that is both miraculous and terrifying. If we had more men with his abilities and the sources to train them, the city could be a much safer place.” He stopped, not wanting to inflict his personal opinion about what professional police work should look like on the Earl of Halsbury who wasn’t likely to interest himself in the thoughts and theories of an inspector.

Instead, the Earl nodded at him.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “I had a thought-provoking discussion with another club member about the importance of an organised police force and I would be most interested in hearing what you, an actual Bow Street inspector, have to say about the current situation.”

Lestrade lowered his knife and fork.

“But sir,” he protested, “this is hardly a topic for a surrounding such as this.”

“You would be surprised what topics are being discussed here. I would much prefer discussing something that is of actual value instead of being forced to witness a wager being laid on whether or not the Duke of Wherever will be wearing his red-buttoned or his green-buttoned waistcoat tonight.” One his eyebrows rose. “Oh yes, Inspector, that is a topic that can keep a group of grown-up and wealthy individuals occupied for a whole evening.”

“That is… most fascinating, my lord,” Lestrade said and Halsbury made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Lestrade grinned and felt himself relax even further. The more he saw of Halsbury, the less he understood Holmes’ animosity towards his brother. Granted, there were things going on between siblings, bits and pieces that had roots in a family’s history an outsider would never see but Halsbury was anything but the cold-hearted monster his brother had depicted him to be.

He was handsome, too. Not in a conventional manner, not with his beak of a nose or his hairline that was clearly beginning to recede, but his clear blue-and-grey eyes held an amused glint just now and the corners of his straight-lipped mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to laugh. Was it true what Holmes had once said? That his brother preferred men over women?

Lestrade hastily stabbed a piece of cauliflower, suddenly nervous about meeting the Earl’s eyes or worse: being subjected to another of his critical, all-seeing looks that seemed to be a trademark of the brothers. When he had finished chewing, he felt able to look up again. Halsbury was regarding him with an expression that was impossible to read. The man had to have one of those outlandish Egyptian creatures in his ancestry line. _Sphinx_ , wasn’t it? 

“What I meant to say,” he said, picking up their previous topic, “is that while I try to keep my men sharp and on their toes, our police force is lacking in more ways that I can begin to describe.”

“How so?”

“First of all, the police should be properly salaried instead of depending on fees and unreliable stipends that are based on the crime solving rate and what have you. There’s still too many bribes and corruption attempts, and I think a regular salary, a proper income to guarantee the men’s ability to provide for themselves and their families, would put an end to that. Maybe not completely and certainly not at once but surely, it would make us less vulnerable. Professional uniforms and equipment would be most helpful, too. We are not watchmen, not some hastily recruited, motley bunch. We are the police, and the citizens should be able to recognise us as such.” He attacked a piece of pork, making quick work of it. “What bothers me most of all, sir, is that many men applying for the police – and being accepted into the force, too – cannot properly read or write. That to me is not acceptable. A policeman does not need to be a learned man. I don’t expect my corporals to have studied at a university. But they must be able to read and write fluently.”

He looked at the Earl and noticed Halsbury had stopped eating.

“Dear God, I am so sorry, my lord,” he said. “I have bored you to tears.”

“Not at all,” Halsbury assured him. “I asked for your opinion, yes? I was merely caught up in my thoughts for a moment. You said the exact same as did Sir Robert Peel, the man I mentioned earlier. Most intriguing. With your permission, I would like to introduce you to him. I am sure he would be interested to hear your thoughts.”

“But my lord,” Lestrade protested. “With all due respect, sir, but I very much doubt it. Why would a member of White’s wish to listen to the ramblings of a mere detective?”

“Ah, but I beg to differ. I have seen you at work and was – and still am – much impressed by the efficiency you and your team have displayed. Which reminds me, Inspector, I have taken the liberty to send for Constable Fenton to personally thank him, and I have also written a letter to your superiors and may have mentioned that a promotion should be given serious consideration.”

“Thank you, sir. Fenton is a good man and I am sure this meant a lot to him.”

“Don’t thank me, Inspector, he has not been promoted yet.”

“But still. That you should stoop to –”

Halsbury raised a hand, stopping him in mid-sentence. “I didn’t stoop to anything, Inspector. Your man has saved my brother’s life, and a personal word of thanks and a letter to your superior are nothing in comparison to what you have done for me.” He reached for his wine glass. “And now,” he took a sip, “would you mind very much telling me what exactly happened that night?”

“Well, from what I have pieced together since then, it must have been something like this…”

And Lestrade started telling Halsbury how the news of Holmes’ stabbing had reached him, how Constables Marsh and Fenton had been called to the Purple Hen where a brawl between a gentleman and several less genteel men had resulted in the gentleman having been left outside the Hen stabbed and bleeding, and how he, Lestrade, had rushed to his house where the injured Viscount had been taken to.

“As soon as I had ascertained the Viscount was as stable as could be expected under the circumstances, I decided to seek you out, sir, for you are the only relative I know about,” he finished.

The Earl nodded, as if to himself. “I will not thank you again, Inspector. You know how grateful I am and I will not become a dead bore by repeating myself over and over. But tell me this, if you please. That place, the Purple Hen, is it not? You said it was a gaming hell?”

“It is,” Lestrade confirmed. “And one of the especially unpleasant ones, too.”

“Whist and Faro?”

“Oh no, not that refined. All-Fours, Commerce, Vingt-et-un are among the most common games.”

“I see.” The Earl sighed. “Siren call indeed.”

“Pardon?”

“There are things my brother cannot resist.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I had not taken him to be a gamester.”

“He is not. He counts the cards.”

“He – what?” Lestrade frowned. “How so?”

“He assigns a point score to each card he sees that estimates the value of that card, and then he tracks the sum of these values.”

“But that’s impossible, is it not?”

Halsbury gave a mirthless chuckle. “Not at all. You see, Inspector, my brother and I – different as we may seem – do have a few things in common although he would fight me teeth and claw before admitting to any similarities. One of those things is an unerring memory. Once we have seen, read or heard something, we will never forget it. What’s more, we have both developed a system with which to retrieve all information once needed.”

Lestrade found he was gaping and quickly closed his mouth. “That is amazing!” he said, awe in his voice. “I wish I could do that. I need to write everything down or else I forget it.” He met the Earl’s amused eyes and hastily explained, “I mean, of course I don’t need to write everything down. There are things I can remember perfectly well and I wish I could forget some of them. But I can’t remember everything. A memory like that would be most helpful for my work.”

“I am sure that is part of my brother’s success when it comes to solving riddles. He observes, remembers, puts memories and newly found facts together, draws the correct conclusions and there is your case, solved.”

“That is amazing!” Lestrade repeated. “Do you think he would be willing to share this technique? Teach us? Tell us how to improve our detecting skills?”

“Possibly,” Halsbury shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him as soon as he’s better?”

“I will.”

A discreet knock on the door interrupted him.

“Come,” called the Earl and a footman appeared in the door. A senior member of the staff, noticed Lestrade, not one of the lowly young ones who had tended to him. The servant asked whether the gentlemen wished for the main course to be removed and whether they were ready for a dessert selection which consisted of fresh pastry, cheese and fruit. Upon hearing that, yes, the gentlemen would welcome a selection of wine and fruit, no pastries, thank you, he snapped his fingers and two more footmen appeared to remove the dishes. While they scurried back and forth and encouraged by the Earl inclining his head when asked for permission to recommend corresponding beverages, he listed a number of wines he considered appropriate for the chosen dessert.

“Inspector?” Halsbury nodded at him. “What would you recommend?”

“The 1807 burgundy,” Lestrade said without hesitation. “Good, rich colouring, fruity aroma but not too sweet, just the right balance of fruity and earthy. It will go very well with the cheese and fruit.”

“You heard the Inspector, Ballings, the 1807 burgundy it is.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good choice,” Halsbury approved when the footmen had disappeared. “You seem to know quite a bit where wine is concerned.”

“My father was a good teacher,” Lestrade replied carefully. He hoped he wouldn’t have go into too much detail. “He was French, as you have certainly deduced from my name.”

“I had thought as much. Have you inherited your love for horses from him, too?”

“Indeed yes, I have. He was an extraordinary horseman and he taught us everything he knew.”

“Which brings me to the next subject,” Halsbury said, interpreting Lestrade’s hesitant replies correctly. “Wanderer.”

“What about him?”

“You may remember me telling you I haven’t had much time exercising him.”

“Yes, you mentioned something of the kind.”

“Sadly, this is not going to change much over the next months, especially now that my brother needs looking after. I was therefore wondering if you – provided your work and your engagement with young Wellbie permit – would be willing to exercise him for me, and another one of my mounts, too, if at all possible.”

“Lord Halsbury, I – I…” Lestrade stammered, feeling his ears grow hot. “That’s – oh dear God, that would be brilliant, yes, I would love to!”

It was out before he could help himself and he immediately bit his lip, feeling like a fool. Here he was, Bow Street inspector, a grown man, having dinner with a member of the _ton_ , turning red-eared and all but shouting. The Earl didn’t seem to mind, however, quite the contrary. A warm smile spread over his face, softening his otherwise haughty features.

“That makes me very glad indeed. And before you ask, yes of course I have grooms to look after my horses but when it comes to Wanderer and possibly Hades, too, I feel myself unwilling to hand them over to my grooms, reliable and saddle-fast as they all are. Then I saw how beautifully you handled Wanderer who was a bit ill-tempered that evening – I will not hesitate admitting I had toyed with the idea of having another horse saddled for you – but you had him under control the instant you were in the saddle.”

“Ill-tempered?” Lestrade asked, surprised. “I found him to be very sweet.”

“Yet another proof of your superior horsemanship.” The Earl’s smile widened. “May I be so bold as to assume you are interested?”

“I am, sir, and very much so.”

“You will of course be paid for your troubles.”

“My lord –” Lestrade began but the Earl shook his head.

“Nonsense, Inspector. I am not handing out alms to a beggar. I have asked a professional for his assistance and for that, I am willing to pay a fee. With your permission, I will have my secretary draw up an agreement that states your payment and if you agree, I will ask my tiger to introduce you to my grooms and discuss the details of your assignment with you.”

“Your… _tiger_?”

“Yes. Jeremy, or Jem, as he prefers to be called. You may recall him, short fellow with the face of an angel and the voice of a demon.”

“Oh, him,” Lestrade grinned. “I remember him. He was very – uhm.” He faltered. _Lofty_ was what he had wanted to say but under the circumstances thought it wise not to comment.

Halsbury raised an eyebrow. “Yes. That would have been him.”

The door opened and the footman reappeared, but instead of dessert and wine he brought a single sheet of paper, carelessly sealed, and handed it to the Earl, shooting an apologetic glance in Lestrade’s direction. Then he straightened and took a few steps back while Halsbury broke the seal and unfolded the sheet. A crease appeared between his brows and he read the letter a second time. When he looked at Lestrade, it was with a look of regret.

“Please accept my sincere apologies, Inspector, but it looks as if my presence is urgently required elsewhere.”

“The Viscount?” Lestrade asked, alarmed.

“No, all is well with my brother. It is quite another matter. I deeply regret it but I must go. Please feel free to stay for dessert and a glass of wine.” He balled the paper together and, rising from the table, threw it into the hearth where the flames greedily consumed it. “Your evening shall not be ruined just because some fool –,” he caught himself just in time and took a deep breath.

“It’s alright, sir, these things happen,” Lestrade said, rising from his chair, too. “I should go, too.”

The Earl opened his mouth as if to say something but Lestrade nodded.

“I have a very unpleasant procedure to supervise tomorrow morning, sir, and while I would greatly enjoy taking you up on your offer and stay for a little while longer, it would be wiser to take my leave as well. Allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, Lord Halsbury, and I look forward to meeting your man to discuss the details what we have agreed upon.”

He held out his hand, aware he should have waited for the Earl to move first, but Halsbury didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he warmly clasped Lestrade’s hand and, after once more expressing his regret that their dinner had found such an untimely end, took a rather hasty leave.

Lestrade followed, a little less hasty, wondering what on earth might have happened. Then he shrugged, accepted his coat and hat from a footman – slightly more senior than the ones who had looked after him when he first arrived, he noted with amusement – and stepped outside where a hackney already stood waiting for him. Well. What a pleasant surprise.

Dining with an Earl sure came with advantages.

 ******

The following week, Lestrade stood before a public house near Russell Square where he was to meet with Jeremy, no, Jem, to discuss the details of his new assignment. This time, however, he was not nervous and he hadn’t donned his best clothes, either, had merely changed from his heavy work boots and overcoat into his regular top boots and a lighter coat. He checked the time on his pocket-watch and decided against waiting outside. A dark cloud was drawing suspiciously nearer and the last thing he needed after spending the better part of his day wading through a most appalling mixture of mud and blood was getting drenched in rain a second time.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The Running Rabbit was a very respectable and clean public house where there were hardly going to be any brawls he would feel obliged to break up, ruining his good coat. After all, he was meeting with the Earl of Halsbury’s servant, his _tiger_ , whatever that was, and he expected nothing less than the utmost respectability.

It turned out that Jem was already expecting him and, when Lestrade approached the table the innkeeper pointed out to him, rose from his chair to greet him. He was impeccably dressed in a close-fitting coat and the palest of buckskin breeches that set off his slender frame to advantage. He was just as short as Lestrade remembered, but at a second glance appeared to be wiry rather than elfin, despite his angelic looks. ‘The face of an angel’, Halsbury had said and while it had seemed like an odd choice of words coming from a man like him, it was nevertheless the truth. Jem was a beautiful young man with large, soulful eyes, a straight nose and a wide, sensual mouth. His hair was tied back in a neat queue and in the light of the candles above their table seemed the colour of rich, liquid honey.

“Inspector Lestrade,” he said with that dark, raspy voice that Halsbury had called ‘the voice of a demon’. Lestrade found it surprisingly pleasant, if only as an appealing contrast to his angelic features. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Lestrade took the offered hand and shook it. Nothing angelic here, either. Jem’s handshake was that of a man used to manual labour.

“Likewise, Mister – uhm, I am dreadfully sorry but the Earl never gave me your full name.”

“Call me Jem. Almost everybody does.”

“Fine. Jem it is. And you will call me Greg, please. I am not here as a policeman.”

“Greg.” Jem’s eyes swept over Lestrade’s appearance, as if to weigh and evaluate him. Apparently Lestrade was not found lacking for Jem grinned – again, very much not angelic – and sat down behind the table again, signalling for the barmaid. “What will you have then, Greg?”

“How’s the dry stout here?”

Jem made a face. “Beer?”

“Yes. I’m not in the mood for anything stronger. Not after today.”

“If you say so. The beer is actually very decent. I am personally acquainted with the brewer.”

“Dry stout it is then.”

When the barmaid had provided them with the requested beverages, Jem reached into his livery jacket and pulled out a sealed document.

“Your contract,” he explained. “His lordship wants you to read it and take your time before you sign. If there is anything you don’t understand, please see Mister Tomney.”

“Who is Mister Tomney?”

“His lordship’s secretary.”

“I see. Thank you.” He reached for the document and placed it into the inner pocket of his coat. “So, tell me, what am I expected to do with Wanderer and – Hades, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Hades. As black as you would expect from a horse carrying that name, with the exception of a white sock on his left hindleg. His lordship snatched him away from the greedy claws of Lord Whimmering who wanted him for his town curricle.” He snorted. “As if Hades would ever agree to pull a carriage. We were a bit surprised when his lordship showed up with him because, truth be told, he’s not fully broken in yet.”

“How long has he been with you?” Lestrade asked, interested.

“About a week.”

“Then there is no time to waste. You mustn’t leave a horse half broken in. The longer you wait, the more hell there’ll be to pay.”

“Do you feel up to the challenge?”

“I’d have to look at him first but in general, yes, I know how to break in a horse.”

“How come a policeman knows so much about horses? I’ve seen you with Wanderer. Excellent bottom if ever I’ve seen it.”

“Thanks. I’ve grown up with horses. My father bred and trained horses back in France and when he came to England, he continued. Not quite the prime bits of blood he was used to but no screws either. He specialised in breeding horses for merchants and impoverished gentry and when he passed away, he left land and business to me and my brothers.”

“You’re landed, then?” Jem’s eyebrows rose.

“We own a bit of land, yes, but ‘landed’ sounds grander than it actually is. It’s more a patch of land, really, with a farmhouse in need of repair, two rather ancient stable buildings and some grazing land for the hacks.”

“Forgive me for asking, but did your father flee from the Revolution?”

“No, he left France a lot earlier.” He took a swig from his tankard and wiped the foam off with the back of his hand. “I see this is some sort of interrogation, probably to find out whether or not I’m fit to work for your master. I’m not going to give you my whole life story but I will give you this. My father was the bastard son of some noble Frenchie and one day he was done being treated like a piece of dirt, took his wife and little son,” he made a gesture indicating himself, “left the country and never looked back. With the exception of his paternal grandmother nobody cared and nobody ever contacted him again and when the old lady died shortly after he had gone, she left him a sum that enabled him to buy some land and start over.”

Jem had listened in growing fascination. “Have you never thought about returning and claiming what is rightfully yours?”

It was Lestrade’s turn to snort. “Certainly not. They never cared for my father, never invited him, treated him as if he was the lowliest of creatures. Why would I want to return? And to what effect? I have everything I need, a job, a small house, a more or less regular income. My brothers and their families have everything they need. None of us is rich but none of us is starving, either.” He took another pull. “You know, I sometimes see my uncle – that would be the most honourable Viscomte de Brienne – prance around town and whenever I see him, I can’t cross the road quickly enough, hoping he hasn’t seen me. It would be impossible to deny our family ties because I’m the spitting image of my father and he was the spitting image of his noble sire.” He realised he had already said a lot more than he had intended to disclose and took a deep breath to calm himself down again. Halsbury would find out about his family sooner or later. “Now, Jem. There’s something I’ve been dying to ask you. What on earth is a tiger and what does he do?”

Jem laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh and Lestrade wiped ‘angelic’ once and for all off the list of words with which to describe the young man sitting across the table.

“I drive out with his lordship,” Jem explained. “I stand or sit behind him, depending on which vehicle he uses.”

“That’s all? He employs someone to ride out with him?”

“That’s not all, no. His lordship has his ways but he’s not eccentric and he doesn’t burn his blunt, either. I am responsible for his lordship’s stables, along with Timothy Larkin, the head groom. You may remember him, he was with us that night. He was the one checking the Viscount’s bandages and all.”

Lestrade frowned as he tried to remember. “Medium height, sturdy, a bit grim?”

“That’s Larkin alright. He’s more than a groom and I’m more than mere vehicle decoration.”

“Oh yeah? What else do you do?”

“I run errands for his lordship,” Jem said evasively. “But I also train carriage horses and some of the more challenging mounts.”

“So, in reality the Earl doesn’t really need my assistance?”

Jem shrugged. “His lordship never does anything out of a whim. He must have his reasons. Now, let’s talk horses, shall we?”

Lestrade raised no objections and they soon lost themselves in a conversation that revolved around sweet-goers, bone-setters, neck-or-nothing drivers, driving unicorn versus driving tandem, and the appeal of high-perched phaetons.

They finally agreed that Lestrade should show up at his lordship’s stables the following Thursday and parted ways on the easiest of terms. When Lestrade checked the time on his watch, the hour was a lot more advanced than he had expected. He had spent no less than three hours with that quirky young man and his mood had considerably improved.

He walked home with a new spring in his step and entertained the promising idea that – possibly – hopefully having found a new friend who enjoyed working with horses as much as he did, who had nothing to do with murder and violence and who just might bring some laughter and camaraderie back into Lestrade’s life, both of which he didn’t have an awful lot of these days.

And for the first time in a very long while, he fell asleep with a light heart and a smile.


	14. His Lordship finds himself with his hands full

“That’s what he said?” Mycroft studied his quizzing glass that dangled from a light blue velvet ribbon caught between his lordship’s long fingers.

“That’s how I understood him, my lord,” Jem confirmed. “He was very firm about it. Neither he nor his brothers were starving, he said, and—begging your lordship’s pardon—he doesn’t seem too impressed with aristocracy. I have no reason to doubt his words.”

“Mhm,” Mycroft replied, seemingly absent-minded, twirling his quizzing glass. “That does sound like him, doesn’t it. Did he seem interested?”

“Oh yes, very interested, my lord. I was under the distinct impression that he misses his daily rides quite dreadfully. I have yet to see him in the saddle but from what I’ve observed so far the inspector knows his hacks.”

“I have seen him in the saddle, Jem, and I’m inclined to agree with you. Very well.” He stopped twirling the quizzing glass, rose and, picking up a few sealed documents, walked around his desk. “Dr Millings tells me my brother’s condition is steadily improving and he should be stable enough to be taken to Chestnut Hall by the end of next week.” He started handing the documents to Jem, one after the other. “Have Ernsting deliver this letter to Mr and Mrs Jennings so they may prepare the house for our arrival. This one is to be delivered to Bath, for the attention of Mrs Hudson. See if Rogers can make himself available. The next two documents are for Lady Harcourt, she is expecting them. Into her very hands, Jem, these are confidential. And this one goes to Lord Wyndom. I believe you are acquainted with his valet, yes?”

“I am, sir.”

“You will not give this letter to him, Jem. This concerns a personal matter and I will require an immediate answer. If you cannot deliver the letter to him directly, please keep it on your person until you can. Once you’ve delivered it, you will wait for a reply. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do, sir.” Jem looked hurt. “This is not the first time your lordship has entrusted me with confidential documents. You may rely on my utmost discretion, as always.”

“No need to fly into the boughs, I am well aware of that. In fact, I was going to make a proposal that would serve as a proof of me being very much aware of that.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you are willing to lend me your ear, that is.”

“I am listening, your lordship.” Jem’s overall expression was that of a puppy kicked out of the way but he almost imperceptibly stood a bit straighter.

Mycroft suppressed a smile. “You honour me, Jeremy. I was wondering whether you would be willing to be the inspector’s principal contact while I am gone. I will not be needing the services of my tiger at Chestnut Hall but I am hesitant to let your talents run idle.” Jem opened his mouth as if to say something and Halsbury raised his hand, stopping him. “Before you work yourself into a fit of the vapours, rest assured that I am neither weaning myself from your indispensable presence in my life nor am I implying you are lazing about the minute I turn my back. You are very welcome to take some time off while I am gone and I will inform Mulroney accordingly. But I would much appreciate it if you could oversee the inspector’s work with my horses and answer his most pressing questions.”

“And get to know him a bit better?”

“That, too. Find out about him what you can.”

“Am I to spy on him, sir?”

“No. I don’t think that’s necessary. I trust you to choose the appropriate, uh, methods.”

“Good,” Jem said with obvious relief. “The inspector is a good man, sir. I don’t think it would be right, spying on him.”

“Oh?” The Earl looked at his tiger. His tiger looked away. “You like the inspector, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You understand just fine. But I agree, the inspector is indeed a good man and it is not my intention to keep a full record on him. Just—who is he, other than the son of de Brienne’s illegitimate offspring? Where does he come from? Does he have family, apart from his brothers? Why did he leave, if he loved working with horses so much and if the business was not bad? General information, Jem. I am not interested to learn which barber he frequents or whether he pulls off the left or the right boot first.”

“You are not?” Jem was all wide-eyed innocence.

“I am not, you horrid creature. Now off you go. I believe you have documents to deliver, yes?”

Jem executed a smart bow and left the Earl’s study. Mycroft followed him with his eyes. So Jem did have a weak spot for the inspector, just as he had suspected. Small wonder. Lestrade was a handsome man and Mycroft was not blind to his attractiveness, either. Quite the contrary, in fact. He remembered all too well how the man’s dark eyes had lit up when they had discussed horses and how passionate he had become when he had talked about what improvements he deemed necessary with regards to policing.

Lestrade was not a member of the _ton_ , but his father—bastard son or not—had obviously been raised a gentleman and had passed manners and taste on to his eldest. Lestrade’s financial means must be anything but abundant and exquisite tailoring was certainly out of his reach, but while his coat and waistcoat had not been of the finest material, they had been well-cut nevertheless and displayed the inspector’s powerful frame to full advantage. No padding was needed for those shoulders, and breeches clearly were the best sartorial choice when it came to—

Mycroft called himself to order. Now was not the time to contemplate the fit of anybody’s clothes. Now was the time to inform Sherlock of his plans of having him transported to Chestnut Hall for recovery, and Mycroft had little to no illusions how that would go.

 

And it went exactly as he had anticipated.

“Certainly not,” Sherlock exclaimed with a look of such disgust as if he was expected to spend the next three years in a dark and humid cave somewhere on the Antipodes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. I seem to remember a summer where you did not mind at all spending a few weeks at the Hall.”

“That was ages ago.”

“It was three years ago, Sherlock,” Mycroft mildly pointed out.

“I was a child back then.”

“You were three-and-twenty. Dr Millings is certain it will do you good to be away from the city for a few weeks—”

“Weeks?”

“—and I am in perfect agreement with that. You can go trout fishing, if you feel strong enough—”

“Trout fishing? Hardly the right season.”

“—and as soon as Dr Watson gives his permission—”

“Watson?”

“For heavens sakes, will you let me complete one sentence instead of parroting every other word?” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock crossed his hands behind his head and grinned.

“You little—”

“Temper, temper, brother dear.”

“In any case, Dr Watson has agreed to join us in a week or two to personally monitor your progress.”

“He has?”

“Yes indeed and I am heartily glad for it. Millings suggested it himself, saying he had worked so hard—” Mycroft interrupted himself and regarded his brother with surprise. “You’ve nothing against it, then?”

“Oh, Watson seems a decent enough fellow,” Sherlock lightly said. A little too lightly, Mycroft noticed, but chose not to comment on it. If Sherlock had decided, for whatever reasons, that Dr Watson was somebody whose presence could be tolerated, the better for it.

“I am very pleased to hear it. What I was going to say is that as soon as Dr Watson gives his permission you may go for walks, maybe even for the occasional easy ride or two. You may choose either from my stables or have your own horse brought over.”

“Choose from your stables?” Sherlock placed a hand on his heart with mock astonishment. “But Mycroft, I am deeply moved. You must have been more worried about my well-being than you let on.”

“Oh, do be quiet.” Mycroft crossed his legs. “Would you like me to send for Tanner so you may discuss what you will need?”

“That would be awfully kind, Mycroft. While I am grateful enough to be lying around in one of my own nightshirts as opposed to wearing yours,” he gave a theatrical shudder, “I must own I am looking forward to dressing like a gentleman again. When did you say we were leaving for the Hall?”

“Subject to Millings’ agreement, I was thinking of leaving on Friday. I have already sent one of my men to alert the Jenningses. In addition, I have taken the liberty to have a letter sent to Mrs Hudson for I am certain you will need to be looked after during the first week or two.”

“Mycroft, I am neither a child nor an invalid,” Sherlock protested but it was a half-hearted protest at best and they both knew it. Sherlock was exceedingly fond of his old nurse and if there was anyone on the whole wide world to always find the right balance between gentle care and a firm hand, Martha Hudson was the woman to go to. Sherlock would rebel against everybody and their dog but rebelling against Martha Hudson was out of the question.

Then something else occurred to him for he suddenly narrowed his eyes. “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Have you told Mummy?”

“Of course I have. I sent her a letter as soon as I knew you were on the mend. Had Dr Millings told me otherwise, I would have sent a courier. And before you even ask, no, I have not heard from her yet. I doubt she has already received my letter. She is travelling Italy with her cousin Emily.”

“I knew that,” Sherlock said.

“Of course you did. Anyway, a letter is on its way into her hands and I have no doubt we will hear from her soon.”

“Do you think she will interrupt her travel and come to the Hall, too?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I couldn’t say. You know our mother. One can never tell.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Mummy and Mrs Hudson may be a little too much.”

“By the time Mummy arrives from Italy—if she decides to return to England earlier than planned—you will doubtlessly be strong enough to make it through her maternal ministration unscathed.”

Sherlock huffed and Mycroft stood up.

“Now if you will excuse me, brother, I have things to organise. Do you need anything? Should I have sent for Will or Hannah?”

“Will, please. I think I need a shave.”

“You do. He will be with you shortly. Now try to get some rest, yes?”

“Yes, brother hen.”

“Brat,” Mycroft retorted, but without venom.

 

******

 

Due to unfavourable weather conditions, their departure for Chestnut Hall was delayed by one day. It was just as well because on Friday morning, a startled Mulroney interrupted Mycroft—who was going through the day’s mail with his secretary—by announcing that Master Frederick was here to see him.

“Frederick? Surely he is not all by himself?” Mycroft put the letter down that Mr Tomney had just given him and stared at his butler.

“It would seem so, my lord.”

“Where is he now?”

“Begging my lordship’s pardon, but I have taken the liberty of bringing him directly with me. I didn’t have the heart to leave him waiting in any of the other rooms in which your lordship usually receives visitors.”

“So he’s right outside?”

“He is, my lord.”

Mycroft pushed his chair back and stood up. “By all means, let him in!”

“Very well, sir.”

He turned to his secretary. “Please proceed as discussed, Mr Tomney. We will go through the remaining letters later today.”

“Of course, my lord.” Tomney gathered his papers and on his way to the door was all but run over by Master Frederick who pushed past him and stormed inside the Earl’s study as soon as Mulroney had opened the door wide enough for him to squeeze through.

Freddy was wearing a dark green overcoat, a blue cap and a pair of sturdy booties, and he was carrying something that looked like a miniature carpetbag. Mycroft frowned.

“Good morning, demon,” he greeted his young visitor. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Frederick dropped his bag and ran towards him with outstretched arms. Mycroft immediately crouched down to catch him for it had taken all but one look to see something was not quite right. His godson hurled himself into his arms as if his life depended on it.

“For heavens sakes, Freddy, don’t strangle me.” He gently freed himself of the death grip he was subjected to. “Here, let me help you out of your coat and then you shall tell me what has happened.” He unbuttoned Freddy’s coat and handed it to Mulroney whose face had not quite lost its perplexed expression. “Mulroney, may I trouble you with the task of bringing this young gentleman some refreshments?”

Mulroney quickly collected himself. “Certainly, my lord.”

“What would you like to drink, Freddy? Would a hot chocolate be to your liking?”

Freddy nodded.

“I thought so. Mulroney, please have Mrs Blakely prepare a hot chocolate, and please ask her to put together a tray of fruit and sweetcakes.”

“Right away, sir.”

When the butler had closed the door behind him, Mycroft pulled up an armchair, sat Freddy down on it and pulled up a second chair for himself, positioning it so they faced each other.

“Well, my boy, pray tell me what has happened that made you show up at my house unannounced, unaccompanied and with a carpetbag? And how on earth did you get here?”

“I walked,” Freddy said.

“You what?”

“I walked. I know the way, Uncle ‘croft, it’s not very far,” his godson informed him nonchalantly.

Mycroft stared at him, speechless for a few seconds.

“Does your mother know about this?” he finally asked, and Freddy vehemently shook his head.

“She rode out with Mr Fitzwilliam.”

“How about Cousin Phoebe?”

“She’s seeing a friend.”

“Freddy, I will have to let your mother know that you’re here.”

Freddy grabbed his sleeve when he was about to get up. “No, Uncle ‘croft, please don’t! I want to stay with you!”

“But your mother will be dreadfully worried about you when she comes back and finds you’re gone.”

“No she won’t,” Freddy burst out, his lower lip beginning to quiver dangerously. “She’s with Mr Fitzwilliam and he will talk and talk and tell her all about ‘merica and she will forget about me.”

Mycroft postponed the necessity of penning a short note to Anthea upon hearing this.

“Why do you say that, Freddy?”

“He’s always there, Uncle ‘croft, and he talks and laughs and takes us for rides in the park, and he calls me his little man and a good chap and—I don’t like it, Uncle ‘croft!”

“Is he treating you unkindly?”

“No, he’s never unkind. He is—” Freddy scrunched his face up, obviously thinking about how to make himself understood. “I don’t like it when people are too kind all the time,” he burst out. “I don’t want to be his chap, Uncle ‘croft, and I am not his little man. I like it much better when you call me demon and say I howl like Benji, and you drive a lot better than he does.”

“I see.” Mycroft frowned. “And why do you say your mother will forget about you?”

“Because Mr Fitzwilliam doesn’t stop talking about how wonderful ‘merica is and all that and Mummy smiles and nods her head and then he talks more and more and—Uncle ‘croft, I think he wants to be my Daddy.”

“Does he now,” Mycroft said with terrible calm, but when he saw his godson’s eyes fill with tears, he gently ruffled Freddy’s hair. “Don’t worry, Freddy, it will not come to that.”

“Can’t you send him away?”

“I don’t think that’s within my power.”

Freddy sat pondering on this for a moment, then he slid his small hand into Mycroft’s. “Can’t you be my Daddy, Uncle ‘croft? I would like that above all.”

“Now, that’s for your mother to decide,” Mycroft carefully replied, squeezing Freddy’s hand.

“But Mummy likes you!”

“What makes you so certain about that?”

“Because when she looks at you, her eyes are laughing.”

“They are?” Was there anything children did not notice? Maybe he should introduce Freddy to Lestrade. It would be a cardinal sin to let such observational skills go to waste.

“Yes, and her face gets all red.”

“But not when she looks at Mr Fitzwilliam?”

“No,” Freddy said without a moment’s hesitation and Mycroft had to stifle a smile. But before he could answer, there was a knock on the door and Mulroney reappeared, carrying a tray that was laden with fruit and sweets. A cup of hot chocolate sat amidst the plates, its delicious smell wafting across the room and directly into Master Frederick’s nose. He visibly perked up at the sight of the rich bounty being delivered directly to him and the worried look on his face vanished for the moment. Mycroft gestured for the tray to be set down on the small coffee table and when Mulroney left them, pushed the tray into Freddy’s direction.

“Help yourself,” he invited him, “but don’t eat it all at once. It’s bad enough you’ve stolen away but I’ll be damned if I return you sick as a dog.”

Freddy giggled and heaped a healthy mix of biscuits and sweetcakes onto a plate. Mycroft watched him chew and drop crumbs onto his carpet.

“Do try and eat like a proper human being, you abominable little whelp. The maids have enough to do without you adding to their workload.”

“Shorry,” Freddy said, cheeks stuffed full as those of a hamster. He hastily brushed some more crumbs off his trousers. Those, too, landed on the floor, and Mycroft gave a theatrical sigh.

“Listen, Freddy,” he said, “I am going to send a note to your mother so she knows you’re with me. She will be worried when she comes back and you’re nowhere to be found. Your mother loves you more than anything else, you see, and there is nothing Mr Fitzwilliam can do about that, no matter how much he talks.”

“Do you promise he will not be my Dad?” It came out muffled, between bits of a chocolate cake.

“I cannot forbid him to think about it—” he held up a hand when Freddy started as if to say something, “but I am fairly certain your mother has no intention of marrying him, if that’s what you are worried about.” He rose and went to his desk. “Now let me write your mother a quick note and if you promise me you’ll never run away from her again, I will drive you home with my team of greys. What do you say that? Is that a deal?”

Freddy, his mouth stuffed with biscuits, nodded so enthusiastically that he started coughing. Mycroft laughed.

“That’s what comes from being greedy. Nobody is going to steal your biscuits from you. There is no need to stuff yourself like that.”

He sat down and scribbled a few lines to Anthea, letting her know her son was with him and he would return him around eleven o’clock. He then rang for Mulroney, folded and sealed the letter and handed it to his butler.

“Have this delivered to Lady Harcourt, will you? And please be so kind as to ask Mr Tomney to cancel my luncheon with Sir Linney. And if it’s not too much of a bother I would be grateful if you let Larkin know that I will be needing my greys at half ten. Master Frederick desires to be taken out for a ride. Is that not so, Freddy?”

Freddy opened his mouth to reply, remembered what he had just been told, finished chewing, swallowed and only then he said, “Yes, Uncle ‘croft. I should like that a lot.”

“Good lad,” Mycroft said approvingly.

His butler bowed, a small smile hovering about his thin lips, and left to carry out the tasks given him.

When Freddy had finished his hot chocolate and regretfully pushed the tray away, announcing he could not eat another biscuit, Mycroft wisely decided to delay the ride with the greys. His godson had devoured an impressive amount of sweets and he did not particularly wish to experience the horror of having a child become sick while riding next to him in his curricle.

“Would you like to visit my brother Sherlock while we wait for the greys?” he suggested, remembering that Freddy—just like Dr Watson—was among the chosen ones whose presence found mercy before his brother’s eyes. Despite Sherlock’s occasional nagging about Mycroft taking such an unusual interest in his late friend’s only son, there was no denying that Sherlock had taken an instant liking to Master Frederick when they had finally been introduced. Freddy was a bright little boy and Sherlock, for all that he was impatient with those he deemed unworthy of his time, had a soft spot for small children, and when Mycroft had caught his brother explaining a beetle’s outer and flight wings to Freddy, he knew that Sherlock, too, had fallen for Freddy’s charms.

As if to prove his point, Freddy’s eyes went huge and round. “Uncle Sherl is here?”

Mycroft nodded, smiling. “He is upstairs.” He stopped Freddy who was about to jump off the chair. “Listen to me first, Freddy. Sherlock is ill, that’s why he is staying with me. He was—” he hesitated, unsure what to tell Freddy, then decided on the truth. “He was hurt by a bad man and he has a wound on his stomach. He can sit up and he can walk around a little, but he still gets tired very quickly. So no jumping around, do you hear me?”

Freddy nodded wisely. “When I had the mumps my head hurt a lot. I promise to be quiet.”

“Good. Let’s go to his room and see if he is awake or asleep, yes?” He stood up and waited for Freddy to climb out of the big armchair.

“Do you think I can ask Uncle Sherl about the slow worm that I found in the garden?” Freddy asked on their way up the stairs.

“I am sure of it.”

Freddy beamed. “I wanted to keep it but Mummy said she wouldn’t allow slimy things in her house. But it wasn’t slimy, Uncle ‘croft, only a little wet.”

“Your mother is not particularly fond of snakes.”

“But it’s not a snake,” his godson pointed out. “It’s a lisserd.”

“A lizard. How do you know that?”

“Cousin Phoebe read me an article in one of Daddy’s books and we looked at the pictures together.”

“I see.”

They had arrived at Sherlock’s door and Mycroft knocked.

“Come,” came Sherlock’s voice from inside and Mycroft nodded to Freddy.

“He’s awake then. Let’s see if he will receive you.”

He opened the door and peered inside. Sherlock sat propped up against a number of pillows supporting his back and was going through what looked like a months’ worth of scientific magazines.

“Here’s a young gentleman who wishes to discuss his encounter with a member of _anguis fragilis_ with you, Sherlock. Are you up for it?”

Sherlock lowered his magazine and Freddy stepped forward.

“How do you do, Uncle Sherl,” he said politely. “Uncle ‘croft said you were hurt by a bad man. Can I tell you about the slow worm I found in our garden or are you tired?”

“I would love to hear all about the slow worm, Fred,” Sherlock said, casting Mycroft a side glance. “You have no idea how bored I am. Let me give you a piece of advice: don’t ever get stabbed, Fred. It’s not the thing at all!”

Seeing his brother was up to the challenge, Mycroft withdrew from the sickroom and went in search of his secretary. There was just enough time to dictate his replies to two letters that needed prompt answering.

On his way out, he heard Freddy ask breathlessly, “Is it a big hole in your stomach, Uncle Sherl?”

“It’s not a hole, Fred, it’s a cut,” came Sherlock’s serious reply. “But yes, it’s a very nasty one. Do you want to see it?”

“Yes please!”

Mycroft shook his head and closed the door behind him. Small wonder Sherlock got along so well with very young children. He was able to shed 20 years in the blink of an eye when it came to discussing slow worms, beetle wings—or big holes in one’s stomach. Mycroft would never tell him but he sometimes envied him for this particular talent of his.

Not now, however. Now, there was business to tend to and the elimination of Patrick Fitzwilliam to be planned.

If only in the figurative sense.

 

 

 


End file.
